


Autonomy, Beneficence, Justice

by BrennanSpeaks



Category: The Last of Us (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brain Damage, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures, Miscarriage, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 68,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26244946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrennanSpeaks/pseuds/BrennanSpeaks
Summary: When Mel volunteered for the mission to Wyoming, all she wanted was to bring Joel Miller to justice.  She didn't know what she'd be giving up.  She certainly didn't expect to end up trapped in Jackson, trying to nurse Joel Miller back to some semblance of health.  Along the way, she faces challenges to everything she believes in.  So does everyone around her.
Comments: 145
Kudos: 191





	1. FUBAR

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still struggling to understand why this fic exists, but I think it comes down to two reasons. 1) I wanted to explore how Joel and the people who love him might cope with recovery and disability if he survived the injuries inflicted on him. 2) Mel is my least-favorite character, but goddamn do I find her interesting. I wanted to challenge myself to humanize her and explore what makes her tick.
> 
> The title is a reference to the three basic principles that form the foundation of medical ethics.
> 
> Updates will probably be sporadic as there are other things eating into my time right now, but I know where I want this fic to go.
> 
> Disclaimer: While the medicine is researched, there will be inaccuracies and you definitely should not try this at home.

By now, Mel has no shame about looking away when she sees Abby start to raise the golf club. It's not as easy to block out the sound. This one definitely hits his skull. At least he's not screaming anymore - just sort of moaning in a way that seems mostly reflexive. 

She fights to keep the grimace off her face - wouldn't want the others thinking she's gone soft. She just wants it to be done, but she knows she can't begin to relate to what Abby's been going through. Who is she to tell her how this should go? The others' faces hold a mix of emotions. Nora's eyes are flinty and a bitter smile is tugging at the corner of her mouth. Jordan's jaw is clenched, and he's breathing hard. Leah keeps glancing at him, looking as sick as Mel feels. Manny's back is to her. He wants in on the action. Abby's already pushed him back twice, saying "he's mine."

Owen is standing close to Abby's side. If asked, he'd probably say he's there to protect her, in case some late surge of adrenaline gets Miller back on his feet and struggling. He's an idiot, sometimes; the old man is clearly past the point of fighting. 

But, then Owen looks back and meets her eyes and she sees pain there. And disgust, and helplessness. And she forgives him.

She's known Abby a long time, and she thought she was familiar with all the violence she was capable of. She's served beside her in the field, and seen her mowing down Scars like she's threshing wheat. She's heard the stories from all the encounters she wasn't there for - the ambushes, the close calls, Abby fighting her way out through impossible odds. She's even . . . she's even served at the prison, patching up the Scars that might still be useful after Abby and others wring some information out of them. But this . . . this is beyond anything she expected. She'd call it bestial if it weren't so obviously calculated.

She's weighing how much longer she can watch this against how Abby will react if she stops her, when it all suddenly goes to shit, and none of that matters anymore. Jordan's head jerks around. He's staring at the ceiling. "Was that footsteps?" He moves toward the door, Nick stepping in beside him. Then, the door's kicked in all at once, and both their chests explode in a hail of gunfire. Mel hits the deck, fumbling for the handgun at her hip, but the intruders are already in the room and moving quickly into cover. She has a brief impression of red-brown hair, and then a shotgun blast rips through the air above her head, tearing into Leah even as she screams for Jordan. Nora grabs a machete and lunges at a dark haired woman, but the third newcomer - a man - hits her in the chest with four quick shots at center mass, and it's all over for her.

Mel's first instinct when she actually sees their attackers is that they aren't much more than kids. The oldest looks maybe twenty-two. The youngest has to be younger than Abby. They move like they know what they're doing, though, ducking behind cover points, reloading, and coming up with quick, snapped-off shots. The Wolves outnumber them, still, but surprise has done a lot to level the playing field. Too much.

Behind Mel, Owen, Abby, and Manny have all ducked into cover and are returning fire. She can hear Manny cursing and Abby's ragged breathing. The shots from both sides are cautious; her friends don't want to hit her and the intruders must be worried about hitting the Miller brothers. She has to get out of here. Mel swings her gun up and tries to crab-crawl backwards across the floor. Her allies are all in fortified positions, but she's a sitting duck. There's cover off to her left . . . she turns toward it . . .

"Cover me!"

That's the girl with the shotgun, and she's seen the same cover Mel has. While the other two lay down fire with handguns, she snaps off another shotgun blast that half-splinters the table Abby's ducked behind, springs to her feet, and runs in a crouch. Abby's answering shotgun blast just misses her, and then she's jumping on Mel like a crazed monkey. Mel tries to bring her gun into line, but too late. The girl slams her wrist into the ground so hard she feels something pop, grabs her by the hair, and smashes her head into the tile. Mel expects a gunshot next, or a knife to the gut, but the girl's not done with her yet. Before the stars have quite cleared from her vision, she's being hauled up to half-stand, with the girl behind her.

"I need some cover!"

It's Owen's voice, this time, and through blurred vision, she sees him leave concealment and charge toward her, gun out. The girl yanks her around, one arm across her throat. She's clearly just intending to use her as a human shield, but Owen - _idiot_ that he is - turns sheet white and skids to a stop. His hands come out to his sides, gun pointing at the ground, a clear gesture of surrender. Mel expects the other two to blow his fool head off, but Abby yells and comes up shooting, laying out suppression fire that keeps the man and the dark-haired woman pinned behind cover. The girl catches on fast. Before Mel thinks to breathe, there's a knife at her throat, tip digging into the rings of her trachea. "Toss the gun," she says, her breath hot on Mel's ear, "Fucking drop it."

Mel tries to shake her head, but the knife cuts deeper, releasing a fine trickle of blood.

"Okay, okay!" He tosses the 9mm to her feet.

"Now, get the _fuck_ on the ground, or I swear to god . . ."

"Owen, you _idiot!"_ Abby snarls, but he's already dropping to his knees.

"Rest of you, too," the girl says, her voice icy, "Don't give me a reason."

Abby and Manny don't move. They know if they surrender, odds are this ends just as bloody.

"C'mon!" That's the boy - the young man who killed Nora. Only a scrap of black hair is visible above the couch he's sheltered behind, but the gun in his hands is steady. "Nobody else has to die today!" Abby drops down. Mel can hear her reloading her shotgun. A few feet to her left, Manny is doing the same with his revolver.

The impasse ends all of the sudden with a roar that even seems to startle the intruders. A figure barrels out of a shadowed corner and tackles Manny and nearly everyone is cursing at once because it's Tommy Miller. The gunshots must have roused him where his brother's screams did not. He seems half-drunk, but he's got Manny pinned before he can finish reloading and is slamming ham-sized fists into his face. Abby clips off a shot towards him, but it misses high and a moment later he's copying the girl and dragging Manny up to use as a human shield. Manny kicks and struggles, but Tommy's arm locks around his throat and squeezes until he goes weak, then woozy, then slumps entirely. Abby screams, but from her vantage point, Mel can see Tommy's arm relax fractionally, can see Manny's chest continue to rise and fall.

Owen gasps. "Abby . . ."

The girl kicks him in the face without the knife in her hand ever wavering. "Shut up! Get flat on the ground. Hands behind your back. Or, I swear I'll kill her." Mel locks eyes with him and tries to tell him _no_ , but he'll never accept that. He lowers himself onto his belly and crosses his wrists at the small of his back. Abby tries to snap off a shot, but the boy has her pinned down and nearly blows her head off.

"Dina," the girl says tersely, "My pack. Get the duct tape."

"Yeah. On it." The dark-haired woman - Dina - rises and approaches with her gun leveled and fishes a roll of duct tape out of the girl's pack. The girl pushes Mel forward until they're between Owen and Abby. The only sound for a moment is ragged breathing and the rip of the tape as Dina ties Owen's hands behind his back.

"How about it?" the boy calls out, "Four against one. Shitty odds, don't you think?"

"Abby," Owen calls out, his voice half-muffled, "Toss your gun. It's over."

"No chance," she snaps.

"Abby, they _will_ kill her!"

"They're gonna kill us anyway!"

"There's no need for that." Tommy's voice, just a little slurred. "You ain't killed any of ours - not yet at least. You can walk away, but only if you toss that shotgun right the fuck now."

Abby considers, as if there's anything _to_ consider. As if any wolf would entertain that kind of delusion, Owen notwithstanding. She makes her decision.

The table she's sheltered behind is thick oak, heavy enough to stop 9mm bullets. She _throws it_ halfway across the room, startling Tommy and knocking him and Manny to the ground. Then, she's charging straight at Mel, shotgun in hand but not leveled. The girl reacts without hesitating. She throws Mel into her, hard enough that Abby trips and both of them go down in a tumble. Abby recovers fast and throws her body over Mel's, but they both feel the impact when the girl stomps down hard on Abby's spine. Mel tries to roll away from the tangle of limbs but catches someone's elbow, or knee, or boot, in her eye. The other two women are clawing and striking and grappling. Both are trying to wrestle the shotgun away or at least swing it into line with the other's body. Abby is far stronger, but the girl is as quick as a cobra and just as vicious. Before Mel can even get her bearings, she's broken three of Abby's fingers, done something to her ribs that drew a strained gasp, and buried her knife in the meat of Abby's bicep. Abby has her pinned, though and manages to get the barrel of the shotgun across her throat and push . . .

It's Dina who brings the confrontation to an end. Leaving Owen for the moment, she hits Abby hard in the temple with the butt of her gun, knocking her to the side. Before Abby can recover, the woman kicks her and slams her head into the tile once, twice, three times, and Abby goes limp. Between them, the two wrestle her strong arms behind her back and secure them with what seems like half a roll of duct tape. 

They round on Mel next, but she knows that it's over. She raises her hands and doesn't resist as Dina flips her onto her stomach and tapes her hands. All she can hear for a few moments is the pounding of her own heart. She knows what this would mean if they'd gotten captured back in Seattle - they'd all end up with nooses around their necks and their guts on the ground, but at least it would be quick. She has no idea what to expect from these people. And, yeah, technically Tommy is right and they haven't killed any of theirs, but Mel's had training, and she knows that's not entirely true. She looks up, meets Owen's eyes, and shakes her head.

Manny drops to the ground between them, his hands bound like the rest of them. He's starting to come around. Abby, too, starts to stir. "Cover them, Jesse," Tommy barks.

"On it."

Jesse must be the young man, then.

"What now?" That's the woman's voice. Dina.

"We need as many of 'em alive as possible."

Mel's stomach sinks. Abby starts to kick and flail, but stops after the girl kicks her in the stomach.

"Joel?"

The girl calls out his name like she's asking for backup. Like she expects him to jump up and come help. Mel swallows. They don't realize - not yet.

She lifts her head just an inch to look at him. The old smuggler has sagged down from his position against the wall and now lies crumpled, face down, his ruined leg twisted under him. His chest rises and falls, but his face is slack beneath all the cuts and bruises. It's been a while since Mel could bring herself to look at his face. Her stomach roils when she sees how bad it's gotten. 

"Oh, god, Joel!"

That's the girl - the youngest of them, Mel thinks. She jumps over Abby's prone body and runs to his side. "Joel . . . c'mon, wake up, you look like shit. You're okay, Joel. We made it in time. We got 'em. You're okay." She rolls him onto his back , but that earns her not even a slurred groan. He's beyond hearing - beyond understanding.

Fuck, these people are going to make it slow. Maybe if he'd been dead when they got here - if they'd blown his head off with the shotgun as soon as Jordan had heard footsteps - it might not have ended up as bad for them. But, as it is, there's no ambiguity - no question as to what they'd been doing. The golf club still sits at his feet, dripping slowly-congealing blood.

"Oh god," Tommy breathes, "Those fucking animals . . ."

A sudden crack of gunfire makes everyone jump. Mel whips her head around and finds the man - Jesse - standing beside Leah's body. "The other three were already dead," he calls out. Abby screams with rage and tries to leap at him, but he knocks her back to the ground and pins her with a boot to her shoulder. "She wouldn't have made it," he says, his voice hard but not entirely without emotion. 

Abby spits at him. "Neither will _he_ ," she growls.

The girl lunges at her, but Tommy catches her by the shoulders. "Ellie. Leave her to me."

She reluctantly looks at him. "What do we do?"

"Joel's hurt bad. Somebody's gotta go to town, get backup."

"No need," Dina says, "We set off a flare over the house as soon as we found the horses. Help should be coming to us."

"How the hell did you get here so fast, anyway? We hadn't even missed the rendezvous."

"Tommy . . . the rendezvous was two hours ago."

That silences the man for a moment. "Oh." He turns back to his brother's limp form. "Oh." He swallows. "Regardless. Gotta do something until they get here. Ellie, why don't you go through their packs, see if they've got any medical supplies."

"I'm not taking my eyes off these fucks. Dina? Check their packs?"

"Yeah."

"What do we do with them?" Jesse is asking, "The other hunters?"

Owen raises his head a little. "We're not _hunters!_ "

"Shut the fuck up!"

"We need to know if there's any more of them." Tommy's voice is suddenly very cold. _Shit._ "There's a side room over there. Jesse, grab _him_. I've got _her._ Ellie, Dina, do what you can for Joel and keep an eye on the other two."

All Mel can do is lie there helplessly while first Owen, then Abby are hauled away. She has to fight to keep her stomach contents where they belong. She's a soldier. She's faced with the possibility of death more days than not, but she's never taken the time to think about this ugly in-between time, where all she can do is wonder how it'll go down and how long they'll make it last. From behind the closed door, she hears a sudden thud of a fist on flesh and hears a grunt that sounds like Abby.

A rattle and a clatter draw her attention to the other side of the room, where Dina is upending a pack that Mel recognizes as hers. Rolled bandages, syringes, and vials of precious medications roll in all directions. "Jackpot," Dina says.

There's another _thud_ from the spare room, then another, accompanied only by silence. Abby won't give them anything.

"Good," the girl - Ellie - says, "Come cover these two. I'll see what I can do for him."

Manny is still only half-conscious. He groans, glares up at their captors, and growls something in Spanish. Dina kicks him in the ribs. "Nobody asked you."

It goes on like that. After a few minutes, Abby's groans turn into stifled cries. Mel can hear Owen's voice, half panicking, and Abby barking at him to shut the fuck up. He won't, Mel knows. He'll give them anything if it means keeping Abby from getting hurt.

A sudden thud of footsteps overhead announces the arrival of backup from Jackson. "Down here!" Dina calls out, "All clear!"

The door swings open and another half-dozen people pour in, led by a middle-aged woman with a hard expression. Her eyes quickly take in Miller, the four bodies, Manny, and Mel. "Shit," she breathes, "Where's Tommy?"

The door to the side room bangs open. "Maria?"

"Tommy, don't you fucking scare me like that!" And then they're embracing and she's wiping away the blood on his forehead and Mel looks away.

"I'm okay. But, Joel . . . he got the worst of it."

The door behind him swings open a little wider. Beyond, Mel can see Abby sitting slumped in a chair, panting for breath. One eye is swollen shut. Her eyebrow and her lip are split. Blood mixes with saliva and trickles down her chin.

"Tommy," Maria says softly, "What's going on here?"

"There's . . . there were eight of 'em. Still not sure what they wanted - the boy said it was just about Joel. Just gotta find out if they've got backup."

"Tommy. Were you makin' her _talk_?"

His face freezes a little. The girl - Ellie - steps forward, her face stormy. "Well, look what she fucking _did_!"

"I know, but this is not what we do!"

"Not what we do?" Tommy hauls Abby up by the shoulder, drags her into the main room, and dumps her down, face first, beside Mel. Her chin glances off the ground. "You see what the bitch did? You wanna know how they nabbed us? Joel saved her life. Dragged her right out of the arms of a pack of runners, and _this_ is how she repays him!" He grabs the bloody golf club and Mel squeezes her eyes shut, but all he does is throw it to the ground by Abby's head. The clatter of metal on tile fills the room.

"I get it!" Maria snaps, "But, that's not what we're about. If something's got to be done about them, we do it clean." She glances around the room. "Any objections?"

A long silence follows, punctuated by a half dozen strangers slowly shaking their heads. Abby turns her head to Mel. Her face is angry and helpless and full of regret. Mel sees the moment when she decides she has to try. "I'm the one you want," she snarls past broken lips, "I beat the shit out of the old man and I'd do it again, but it was all _me._ Let the rest of them go."

"She's lying," Ellie snaps, "They're all in it together, it was a fucking ambush!"

Maria ignores them both. "Seth. Hank." Two of the newcomers step forward. "Take 'em out back one at a time and put 'em down. The girl laid out the beating?"

"Yeah," Abby growls.

"Do her last."

Owen is yelling from the other room and Manny is struggling against the hands hauling him up and all Mel can do is squeeze her eyes shut and clench her jaw. She knows tears are streaming down her face and she doesn't care. She doesn't want to die like this - she doesn't want to die _for_ this. All this over Joel Miller. She lifts her eyes to glare at him, but there's nothing left to hate - just a broken husk. They've covered him with a blanket and elevated his feet above his head. It's exactly the wrong thing to do for a head injury, but they probably don't know that . . .

And, then she sees it. A chance. A slim one, but a chance.

"Wait!" she yells.

"This is happening, girl. You might as well face it with some dignity."

She lifts her head and struggles until Dina puts a boot on her shoulder. "You kill us . . . and we still got what we wanted. He'll be dead."

Ellie pulls out her gun. Mel looks her square in the face. "Think about it. His leg's been blown half off by a shotgun. He's taken over a dozen blows to the head. His brain is hemorrhaging. Do _you_ know how to fix that?"

"We have medical supplies," Dina says, "Their packs . . ."

"Great! Do you know how to use any of those drugs?"

Right on cue, Joel's back suddenly arches. His limbs twitch and jerk.

"Shit! He's convulsing!" Tommy pins his brother by the shoulders and tries to force a rag between his teeth.

"It's a seizure," Mel says, "It'll make everything worse."

Joel lets out a wordless, senseless groan. The spasms are getting worse. Dina drops to her knees among the contents of Mel's pack, grabs a few drug vials, and starts desperately squinting at the labels.

"Cut her loose." Maria's voice is hard and utterly controlled. One of the newcomers pauses. 

"But . . ."

"Do it, Seth."

The man she indicated shoves Manny back to the ground and grabs Mel instead. A pocket knife hacks at the duct tape, nicking her skin in several places. Seth looks older even than Joel, and just as unpleasant. "One wrong move, girl, and you'll wish we just put you down."

Mel ignores him. Instinct and training are kicking in. As soon as she's free, she jumps up and grabs one of the larger drug bottles, along with a syringe. "Take his glove off."

His arm is jerking violently, but Ellie pins it and wrestles his glove off. Mel squats beside him and flips his hand palm-down. "Hold off at the wrist. Hold it steady." She draws up a tiny dose of a bright pink medication, glancing at Joel as she does so. He looks like he weighs about ninety kgs . . .

She slides the needle into his hand, finds the vein, and injects before she can second guess herself. One more hard spasm wracks him, then he slowly goes slack except for his chest moving up and down. Mel pulls the needle out and presses her thumb to the injection site to save the vein. She checks his pulse automatically. It's strong.

For a moment, the room is silent except for the ragged breathing of many lungs. Ellie glances up at Mel, then snatches Joel's hand away and enfolds it in her own. "You're not a doctor," she spits.

"There are no doctors anymore," Mel answers evenly, "I trained under a doctor."

"Where?"

"Salt Lake City."

Some emotion flickers across the girl's face and is gone in a moment. "Oh."

Mel leans forward to check Joel. Ellie doesn't stop her. Mel fishes a penlight out of her pocket, pries back the less damaged of his eyelids, and shines a light in his eye. "Pupil's responsive," she says, as if there's anyone here who knows what that means. She turns his head from side to side. His eyelid twitches, fighting her. "Oculocephalic reflexes intact." She slides her fist under the blanket and rubs her knuckles hard up and down his sternum. He grunts and his hands come up a little. "He's responsive to nociception." She leans back. "Maybe. Maybe I can save him. It beats his chances if I don't try." She lifts her head and looks square at Maria. "I'll try. I'll stay. But, only if you let Owen, Abby, and Manny go free."

"Mel, no!" That's Owen, finally emerging from the side room and fighting Jesse the whole way. "They'll just kill you anyway!"

"They'll kill all of us!" Abby says, "You won't change a thing. Don't you dare try!"

"It's not your decision, Abby. You've done enough."

"Mel . . ."

"No! We would've been free and clear, do you get that? We would've been long gone and it would be _done_ without anybody else getting hurt! But, no, you just had to prove your fucking point!"

"They stay," Tommy says sharply, "We let you all live if Joel does."

"That's not how this works," she says, "I'm not a miracle worker. I'll try. But only if you let them go. Now. And every second we stand here discussing it, your brother is losing brain cells."

"And if he dies?"

"Then, you've still got me, don't you?" Her eyes catch on Leah's broken body and she almost loses her composure. "You've got your pound of flesh. You've killed half of us. Let them go, and maybe I can limit the damage."

"We're not doing that. We ain't putting his life in your hands when you're the fucker that did this to him."

"Then, kill him now and put him out of his misery! Clock's ticking."

"Mel, what are you doing?"

"Cleaning up your fucking mess, Abby!"

"But, you're . . ."

"Shut _up._ " She stares at Maria. "What'll it be?"

The older woman chews on her tongue for a moment. "Hank. Seth. Dina. And Jesse. The storm's clearing up. Take the horses. Take these pieces of shit twenty miles west and cut 'em loose. You can be back before nightfall."

"Maria! We are not just lettin' her get away!"

"Shut up, Tommy!" Ellie's voice is strained. "We can't lose him. We _can't._ "

Mel doesn't look at her. Fuck, Joel Miller was supposed to be a monster. He should've had to be a monster, to do what he did to Jerry.

"C'mon." That's Jesse, brisk and business-like. "We're losing daylight." He's trying to haul Owen towards the stairs, but Owen is bigger than him and is having none of it.

"I'll stay. I'm staying. Mel, I'm not leaving you here!"

"It's the only way."

"But . . ."

"For _all_ of us. This is our only chance. Owen . . ." She stands and faces him, thinking of all the things she should say, but can't. "May your survival be long."

He stares at her, his face pale, his eyes lost. "May . . . may . . ."

"No," she cuts him off, "Tell them the rest of the blessing when they let you go. That way, I'll know you got away safe."

He swallows, but nods, and a moment later the Jackson crew is shoving him out the door and up the stairs and out of her life. Manny looks at her helplessly, but she shakes her head and he stays silent while he is hauled away as well. Abby has clearly decided not to make it easy on her captors. She doesn't fight, but she hangs limp as dead weight while they drag her up and away. All the while, she's staring. At Mel? Or just at Joel Miller? There's no way of knowing for sure.

The door clangs shut behind her, and Mel is still surrounded by people, but suddenly entirely alone. She tucks her hair behind her ears and focuses on what she has to do.

"Well?" Ellie snaps, "What now?"

"Ice," she says without hesitation, "As much as you can get. Snow will work."

"Give him an ice pack? That's your big plan?"

"Part of it." She looks up at Tommy, Maria, and the other three. She makes her voice brisk and sharp as if she's not a hostage here. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Maria jerks her head at a young woman and a slightly older man. "Go get some snow."

Mel doesn't wait to see if they follow orders. She squats by Joel's side and grabs the packs they've propped under his feet. "Help me sit him up," she tells Ellie.

"But, he's in shock!"

"No, he has head trauma. And by elevating his feet, you increase the pressure in his brain and the bleeding gets worse."

Ellie hurries to support his shoulders while Mel slides the packs under him. Reverse Trendelenburg position, more or less. She remembers Jerry going on about that. Mel takes the opportunity to take his head between her hands and have a good feel. The skin is torn to shreds, but she doesn't feel the pulpiness she feared. There's . . . a bit of grinding. Some instability. A skull fracture. But, not a bad one, and it's not depressed. Abby was holding back. Mel doesn't have time to analyze what that might mean. She lifts his other eyelid - the one that's torn and swollen almost beyond recognition - and has to swallow a curse at what she sees. His left pupil stares back at her unseeing, flat and dead as a button and completely unresponsive to light.

She looks at Maria. "I need a power drill. There are some tools out in the garage. And a generator."

The woman arches an eyebrow at that, but nods to the last of her reinforcements. A moment later, only Ellie, Tommy, and Maria remain. Ellie is clutching Joel's hand. Tommy kneels on his other side, murmuring "C'mon, don't do this . . . Don't do this, Joel . . ." Maria lays a hand on Tommy's shoulder.

Mel takes the opportunity to fumble through her once-neatly-arranged medical supplies until she finds what she needs. She coaxes Joel's hand out of Ellie's for long enough that she can start an IV. She draws up a generous dose of hypertonic saline and injects it. "This will help with his blood pressure," she explains to his family, because that's clearly what the three of them are, "And it'll draw fluid off his brain." She finds herself speaking in the low, soothing voice she's developed for use at a patient's bedside. It's no struggle; she's used that same tone even with the condemned Scars at the prison.

The others arrive with buckets full of snow, and Mel is able to distract herself for a few minutes by packing the snow around his head. "This'll slow down the swelling. It buys us time."

Ellie looks at her. "Time for what?"

The last Jackson soldier returns, carrying a Black and Decker drill attached to a long extension cord. Mel takes it and tests it. The drill whirrs with no sign of grating or rust. "Burr holes."

They all pause a beat. "You've gotta be kidding me," Tommy says.

"What?" Ellie asks.

"She wants to drill into his skull!"

"Seriously? The fuck?"

Mel wets a rag with the strongest alcohol in her pack and rubs it over the drill bit, trying to scrub every nook and cranny. "Right now, his brain is bleeding and swelling. All that pressure has nowhere to go. If we don't find a way to release it, it'll cause more damage. His brain could herniate out the back of his skull, which . . . would be bad." She doesn't wait for permission - just positions his head to the side and soaks his hair with alcohol. "Someone will need to hold his head. It has to be kept absolutely still." Tommy nods and moves into position behind Joel. Mel hesitates. "Might be better if it's not family."

"Shut up and drill your holes!"

It's not quite as simple as that. She pours alcohol over the drill bit again. She grabs a scalpel from her pack and checks that the blade is clean and uncontaminated. She wishes she was the praying type - word is, that might make this easier. She doesn't even have gloves. She soaks her hands in alcohol and tries to keep them from shaking. She lays two fingers against his temple, just beside his eye, measuring. 

There's no more time to think. She takes the scalpel and makes a deep cut, only a centimeter long, but right down to the bone. She spreads the skin with her fingers and dabs with a bit of gauze until she can see the white of his skull. "I need someone with steady hands. Hold this open." Ellie's hand is there in a moment, holding open the incision with a finger and thumb. Her knuckles are white with tension and her jaw is clenched, but she doesn't shake or tremble. Mel gives her a short nod and picks up the drill. "Keep him absolutely still." 

She doesn't look at the others because she doesn't need to see them turning green. Mel narrows her view to the drill in her hand and that little circle of white bone. The skull is thin here - just a couple millimeters. She can't risk going too deep. As soon as the drill touches his head, she closes her eyes. She'll have to do this by feel. There's a horrible grinding sound as the drill bit burrs through his skull and then . . . there. The slight pop of releasing tension. She yanks the drill back so fast she nearly clips Ellie's hand. Then, she opens her eyes. 

Blood oozes from the hole she's made in a steady trickle. "Epidural hematoma," she says, mainly to calm her nerves. She tilts his head to drain it, but after just a few seconds, the blood slows and stops. She dabs again with the gauze, feeling the firm swell of fluid rather than the sponginess of the brain itself. The thin, tough membrane over the brain is pushing up through the burr hole, looking purple in the poor light. Mel grits her teeth and picks up a pair of forceps. Without explaining, without hesitating, she grasps the membrane and makes a quick, diagonal cut. Blood all but spurts out, clouding her field of view, but she cuts again, slicing an X into the meninges. Now, the blood pours like a fountain, leaking over her hands and Ellie's, cutting a red track down his cheek. Subdural hematoma. A big one. She tilts his head again and watches the blood stain the snow. Brain bleeds are always less dramatic once they're outside the skull, though. After maybe ten seconds, the flow turns to a trickle, then stops.

"Now what?" Ellie asks tersely.

"Give it a minute." She turns his head back and watches the hole she made. There's no new swelling. No pooling of blood besides a few tiny drops from the skin. No ongoing bleeding. Nothing to do now besides check if she did any good. She shifts her weight to lean on his left arm, puts her thumb into one of the uglier bruises on his cheek, and presses down hard. His right hand twitches, then comes up. It's spastic and uncoordinated, but he's clearly trying to swat her away. She lifts his battered eyelid and shines the penlight in. _Yes._ The eye is twitching in its socket, but the pupil is already starting to constrict down. He lets out a slurred groan and tries to pull away.

Mel sits back, panting. A grin splits her face. Bringing a patient back from the edge is always a rush. No matter who it is.

"Holy shit, I think he's waking up!" Ellie has Joel's face between her hands. At least she has the sense not to shake him. "Joel? Can you hear me?" His eyes crack open and he lets out another slurred groan.

Mel retrieves a bottle of morphine, draws up five milligrams, and injects it into his IV. His face slackens and his eyes flutter shut. She follows it up with another bright pink dose of pentobarbital and his whole body relaxes into a drugged slumber. Ellie turns to her with fire in her eyes. "What the _fuck_? He was coming around!"

"He needed the pain medication."

"He _needed_ to know we're here with him!"

"He can't wake up yet. The shock of it would raise his blood pressure, raise his stress hormones, and make any bleeding worse. Plus, his brain is open to the air right now, and you _really_ don't want him to start pawing at it."

Ellie seems ready to argue just for principle's sake, but Maria rests a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. The older woman looks at Mel. "What now?"

Mel leans back and laces her fingers together to cover the shaking. That's just a natural, physiologic response. Nothing to do but wait it out. People tend to over-react to it, though. "He needs an IV drip, antibiotics, probably more morphine. I need to stitch the skin over the burr hole. Then I can see about controlling the bleeders in his leg, so we can get the tourniquet off. I'll need a lot more light."

She nods and squeezes the girl's shoulder. "Ellie, why don't you go get the flashlights from our supplies? As many as you can find. We're good, here."

While Ellie reluctantly stands, Mel fishes a pack of surgical instruments out of her bag along with some suture. The _fun_ part is over, such as it was. All that's left is work.

_tbc_


	2. John and Jane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joel's stabilized, a little, but none of them are out of the woods yet.

Mel drops one more throw on the knotted suture and wipes a bit of sweat from her forehead with her upper arm. "Okay," she tells Tommy, "Try again."

He releases the tourniquet slowly while Mel holds a pack of gauze close to the bloody crater of Joel's knee, ready to apply pressure if he's still bleeding after the fifth attempt. After a moment, she breathes out. The ligatures are holding. There's a bit of oozing from the ragged muscle edges, but nothing like the spurting from before. Good. 

He's been . . . lucky, if you want to call it that. The shotgun tore a bloody chunk out of the meat of his lower leg, blew a hole in his tibia, and reduced an artery to so much mush. But, the tibia's holding on by a few splinters on the left side and the shot was just low enough that it hit below the big artery in the back of the knee. He'd probably have bled out in minutes, otherwise, regardless of what she'd done. Yeah, this is what counts for luck when it comes to shotgun wounds.

She picks a few more pellets out of the wound with a pair of tweezers. She'll never be able to get all of the buckshot removed, but that's okay. She checks the pulse in the back of his knee. It's strong. She glances at his toes and whistles, impressed despite herself. "He's pinking up." She checks the artery in the top of his foot, and it's faint but unmistakable.

"What's that mean?" Tommy asks sharply, "He might not lose the leg?"

Mel sits back on her heels. "I didn't say that. And right now, I'm more focused on saving his life."

Ellie blasts her in the eyes with a flashlight. "Answer the question!" she snaps.

Mel sighs. "Maybe. If he has enough collateral circulation from the accessory artery. If he doesn't have too much muscle damage from having the tourniquet on for almost three hours. If we can somehow keep it from getting infected. It would still be months and months of recovery, and probably years for him to relearn how to use it. End of the day, it's probably better to amputate."

"You're not doing that," Ellie says flatly.

"It could save him from a lifetime of pain."

"You don't get to make that kind of decision for him."

"He's not going to be in a position to make decisions for himself for a while."

"Well this one's already been made for you."

Tommy puts a hand on her shoulder before she can push it any further. He looks at Mel. "What now?"

"We've done about all we can for the wound, for now. Nothing left but to pack it, bandage it, and splint the leg. Ellie, can you get me that pack of sponges?"

She does, and they drop the subject. The white cotton of the sterile sponges quickly wicks up the red from the oozing wound. Mel packs more on top and holds them in place with a full roll of gauze. She has to switch to non-sterile bandages after that, though; she doesn't have nearly enough of the good stuff for a wound of this size, but cut-up bed sheets will do just as good of a job at keeping the sponges in place. Given the circumstances, infection feels more like a question of _when_ than _if,_ but that's no reason not to try.

Once the bandage covers a solid foot of unbroken skin above and below his knee, she has Tommy carefully elevate and straighten the leg so that she can strap it into a splint they've fashioned from construction scrap. She carefully avoids looking behind her, as she has as much as possible for the past hour.

Joel's shirt, jeans, socks, and soiled boxers sit in a heap off to one side. His coat - which Ellie insisted they save - is draped over the back of the couch. Behind all that lie the bodies. The Jackson soldiers at least had the decency to straighten their limbs and cover each with a bed sheet. It doesn't help much, but Mel will take what she can get.

She ties off the bandages that hold the splint and forces her mind back to the task at hand. Enough work can drown out almost any thoughts, and putting Joel back together certainly qualifies. It's time to do another secondary survey. She starts with his head, still resting on its bed of melting snow. She checks his pupils, his reflexes. No change. Pupils sluggish but responsive. He's out. The skin of his neck and scalp are red from the cold, but there's no sign of frostbite. She checks his temperature in his ear. Ninety-two Farenheit. Just where she wants it.

She moves the sheet that conceals his modesty a little at a time, pausing to check various pulse points. Dark bruises - all the same rough size and shape - lie smattered across his chest and abdomen. Ellie points to his right arm, which sits curled across his chest. "The bruising's getting worse."

Mel picks his arm up and examines a neat row of three evenly-spaced bruises over his forearm. Ellie's right - the red-purple is spreading, making them congeal into one softball-sized splotch, and the swelling is worse as well, despite packing it with snow when they first noticed it. Mel probes it with both hands, and feels a little bit of grinding. "Fractured radius," she says, "But, it's minimally displaced. And I think the ulna is intact. That's the other bone in the arm."

"I know what it is."

She pinches his fingernails and watches as color returns to them. "Good circulation. No sign of compartment syndrome, although we'll keep an eye on it. A plaster cast should be enough to get it to heal. For now, a splint."

While Mel wraps the skin in cotton bandages to protect it, Tommy fetches two more flat, narrow boards. They cobble together a splint that holds his elbow straight and wraps his arm from shoulder to thumb.

" _Weird_ wounds," Ellie says quietly, "I can't picture Joel holding still for long enough to get hit three times in the exact same spot."

Mel shakes her head but doesn't look up, for fear that her face will give her away. Ellie's voice contains only a few residual traces of hostility, which means she doesn't know. Mel remembers those three hits - delivered to Joel's forearm while Manny stood on his hand to keep it still. They were punishment for him trying to take the tourniquet off before Abby was done with him. She's still not sure why he did it. Trying to hurry things along, probably. Or just because tourniquets hurt like hell.

She shakes herself and reaches for another pack of suture. "There's not much left to do. I'll stitch the cuts on his face and recheck everything in two hours." Her hands are trembling, though, and she can hardly load the needle onto the instrument. Ellie snatches the suture from her hands. 

"No. You need to sleep. Or . . . drink something, or eat or whatever. I've got it."

Mel shakes her head. Work keeps the thinking away. "I'm fine."

Ellie's eyes are on Mel's hands. She's blunt, as always. "Frankly, Mel, I'm not letting you near him with a needle until you get _that_ under control." Mel is suddenly and uncomfortably reminded of Abby at her most direct.

She pushes herself to her feet, joints creaking like she's twenty years older than her age. "Okay." She looks at Tommy. "You should let me check you out. You got hit in the head, too."

He glances at Ellie and she shrugs. The girl is using her fingers to push the needle through Joel's skin, but all the same the movement looks practiced. He seems to decide that there's no harm in humoring Mel and stands as well. She lifts his eyelids, one at a time and shines a pen light in them. "Touch your finger to your nose." He does. "Now, stand on one foot."

"This a concussion check or a sobriety test?" he grumbles while obeying. 

She steps a little closer and feels his skull for any fractures. Nothing obvious. "What's your name?" She asks the standard questions on autopilot. 

"Thomas Miller."

"And how old are you?"

"Fifty-one."

"What day is it?"

"Monday."

"And, how'd you hit your head?"

"I didn't - _your people_ hit it for me."

She half-smiles, drops her hands to his shoulders, and squeezes. "You're fine. Moderate concussion. You experience any blurred vision, balance problems, or a headache that suddenly gets worse, tell me straight away."

He nods without looking at her. "Millers have hard heads." There's a softness to his face as he studies his brother. "Good thing."

Ellie glances up, then back down at her work. For a moment, it feels like they're all just too tired to hate each other.

Mel turns away and moves Joel's blood spattered coat to an end table so she can stretch out on the couch. "Wake me in two hours. I'll need to repeat the neuro assessment. And wake me if he starts shivering, his breathing changes, or he has any more seizures."

She closes her eyes. It should be impossible to sleep. She's in enemy territory, surrounded by people who hate her while she tries to save the life of the man she most despises. Nora lies dead somewhere behind her, and Nick and Jordan and Leah. Owen . . . god only knows. Could be dead in a ditch somewhere with bullets in his back or on the run from clickers without so much as a pocketknife to defend himself. She shouldn't be able to rest. But, the weariness that's gripped her since the moment she peed blue on the stick suddenly rears its ugly head. She closes her eyes and thinks of nothing.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_Salt Lake City, Utah_

Mel jolts awake at her desk, roused by the sound of a guttural scream. Shit, she must've fallen asleep working on charts again. She pushes herself up and rubs both hands over her face, trying to scrub the sand out of her eyes. One of the orderlies - a kid named Tyler who can't be older than nineteen - pokes his head through the curtained doorway. "Ah, I think we need you."

She stands and grabs her stethoscope. "Is it John Doe again? The one they pulled from the river?"

"Yeah. He's waking up dysphoric. Again."

"He get violent?"

"How'd you guess?"

She follows him down the dim hallway to a room lit by a fluorescent glow. Their John Doe is sitting up in bed, struggling against the nurse and two orderlies trying to restrain him. He's still wearing his own clothes - a flannel shirt and battered jeans. Besides the knock on his head suffered resisting arrest, his wounds hadn't seemed serious enough to warrant destroying what might be the only clothes he owned. After said arrest, though, some genius on the scene thought it was a good idea to give him ketamine to keep him down, he had an adverse reaction, and they've been fighting the side effects and resulting fallout for six hours, now. Or, maybe Mr. Doe is just naturally a belligerent shit.

She grabs his head and shines a light in his eyes. "Sir. I need you to calm down, sir. You're having a reaction to a medication - that's why you feel so agitated. If you'll just settle down and stop fighting us, you'll feel better soon, and then we can talk about what happened."

He's clearly not hearing or understanding her. If they ever do get him properly awake, he probably won't remember any of this. His head is tossing from side to side, whipping itself out of her hands. His eyes twitch and roll sightlessly. He's mumbling words, but nothing that can be called coherent. 

"Ellie . . . where . . . oh, god, _where_ . . ."

"Push two milligrams of Haldol."

Wearing an expression of deep relief, the nurse draws up a dose of halperidol and stabs it into his forearm. His scream turns into a mumble, then a slurred groan as he sinks back against the bed. "I know, John," she tells him, "Sleep it off."

Mel sighs, frustrated. Back to square one, then. She grabs the chart from the base of the bed and scans it. Her brow furrows. "I thought I told you to wean the pentobarb slowly?"

The nurse's face is defensive. "I did!"

"Not slowly enough. Give him another two hundred milligrams. We need to wake him up _very_ gradually." After she gives the next injection, Mel checks John's pulse one more time, then follows the nurse out the door. "How's Jane?"

"Saturating at ninety-eight percent on two liters. She's still unconscious, but EEG is normal and initial labs look promising." They step into another exam room, this one containing two nurses who have nothing to do and yet feel the need to hover. Jane Doe looks very small in a bed built for an adult. A blue hospital gown tents out around her. Her face is partially obscured by the plastic oxygen mask, but it holds the peace of sleep rather than the unnatural stillness of coma. This is a more complicated case. Near drowning, revived with CPR at the scene, initial chest rads look good. Blood gasses not great, but improving. Chemistry and titers still pending because the damn machines have to be coaxed to work like recalcitrant children. The patient shows anemia and physical changes consistent with childhood malnutrition. And, of course, the most interesting incidental finding of them all.

Mel gently takes her right arm and flips it over. There's an IV in the crook of her elbow, but that's not where her eyes fixate. God, if this is _real_ . . .

Sudden footsteps and the thud of the door make her turn. She smiles with relief. "Hi, doc. Come to see our little miracle?"

Dr. Anderson smells like fresh grass and sunshine, but his face is almost pale. He steps up next to her. "Gloves," he warns, "We don't know if she's infectious."

Mel releases the girl's arm as if it's a hot iron. "Sorry."

Jerry hardly seems to hear her. He's pulling on latex gloves. He touches the abnormal skin on Jane's forearm, running his thumb over the raised bumps that used to be fluid pockets and scarred indents of what have to be tooth marks. His eyes widen and his breath catches. He looks from the child to Mel and back again. "Initial labs?" he asks finally. 

She passes him the chart. "Unambiguous positive on the field Cordyceps scanner, confirmed with an in-house rapid titer."

"It takes a minimum of ten days for this kind of wound to heal."

"I know."

"Are we set for cultures?"

"Blood and CSF cultures have already been started. Full labs pending once we get the damn machines back online. MRI and CT have been scheduled. Contrast, or no?"

"Both. And a twelve-lead EKG and repeat arterial and venous blood gases."

"On it."

He pauses, looking down at the girl. For a moment, he doesn't look like a doctor. He lays a latex-clad hand on her forehead. Jane's brow furrows and her lips part.

"She's coming around," Mel says.

Jerry closes his eyes and comes to a decision. "Push one-twenty of propofol."

"But . . ."

"Just do it."

A nurse complies by injecting the sedative and the patient relaxes back into a presumably dreamless sleep.

"Set up a continuous rate infusion. Keep her under."

"Why, though?" Mel asks, "Are you worried she'll get violent? We've had no indications."

"Do it."

Mel shakes her head, grabs a sheet of paper, and does a quick mental calculation. She scribbles a dosage order and passes it to a nurse. A recipe for a potion to keep their princess in an unending sleep. "We have a lot to learn from her," she says hesitantly, "A complete patient history would be a good start. I know I have questions."

Dr. Anderson shakes his head. "I'm taking over on this case. You focus on John Doe."

"He's fine. He just needs a little longer to sleep off the ketamine."

" _Strict_ confidentiality. I don't want anyone knowing about this girl. I'll loop you in when we have more data and can make a plan of attack."

She nods. He taught her everything she knows. He's never led her wrong before.

"Better get to it, then. Check on those technicians on the imaging floor. If we don't keep a fire under their asses, it won't be done before Fourth of July."

Mel knows a dismissal when she hears one. She looks down at Jane Doe, looking so small and so vulnerable in that big bed. She wants to touch her hand and maybe squeeze, but she's not wearing gloves. She turns to the door, but glances back once, over her shoulder.

Jerry is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down at the girl, seeming not at all like a man who's just witnessed a miracle.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Mel checks Joel's pupils for what seems like the millionth time. They're the same. Reacting normally. His body is slack, but that's to be expected with the pentobarbital doses she has him on.

The light through the snow-covered windows is fading, but Mel can't quite bring herself to call for a flashlight. She's had about all she can take of Ellie for one day.

A hand on her shoulder makes her jump, then turn. Maria looks down at her, her face impassive. "Any change?"

Mel shakes her head. "That's a good thing," she clarifies, "He's not deteriorating."

The older woman nods a little. They're alone, for the moment. Ellie and Tommy have left for the garage, to look after the returning horses and riders. The rest of them are giving the Millers space. "How long until he can be moved?"

Mel sighs. "Forty-eight hours, at least."

"That's not gonna work."

"There's not much _choice_. Any little knock to his head right now could cause a cascade of complications. Just letting his temperature get unregulated could be enough to cause serious issues."

The woman chews on her tongue for a moment. "We're too exposed. We've got half our fighters out here, protecting him. I've got Jackson to think about, and we're leaving it vulnerable."

"You can send most of them back," Mel points out, "We eliminated the only horde in the area. The odds of anyone else happening upon us is pretty slim."

"And leave us exposed if the three of them decide to come back? No thanks"

Mel shakes her head, thinking of Abby and Owen and Manny and praying they're safe. "They won't come back. They know they're lucky to be alive."

"Maybe," Maria says shortly, "That's a chance I can't take." She looks at Joel and sighs. "We're gonna be shorthanded for a while. He was our best fighter, with Tommy an' Ellie not far behind him. They're all gonna be off the rotation for a while, until we know one way or the other."

Her voice is oddly cold, considering she's discussing her brother-in-law, her husband, and her . . . niece? Maybe? Mel is reminded of Isaac. Maybe leaders just have to be like that, sometimes, no matter what it costs them.

"He's stable," Mel says, "Maybe I can keep him that way. But, not if you move him too soon."

The woman looks away and nods. After a long moment, she turns back to Mel and meets her gaze squarely. "There's something else. The ground's too hard right now to dig graves. We've got a cemetery in town, but folks aren't gonna want a bunch of attempted murderers laid to rest there. So, we're gonna cremate them. I've got my people laying out a pyre out back. You want to pay your respects, say a few words, this'll be the time."

The words hit Mel and glance off. She looks away, numb. She stares down at Joel. If he'd died . . . if he dies tomorrow . . . he'll be buried in the cemetery. Regardless of what he's done. "Nora was Muslim," she says finally, "Or . . . her family was, at least. She wasn't very religious, but she wouldn't have wanted her body burned."

"We don't have much choice under the circumstances. Do you want to say a few words, or not?"

Mel nods coldly. "I'll pay my respects." Every Wolf knows that there's no respect to be had in death. A hundred different times, Nora could've ended up fertilizing some Scar's vegetable garden or stuck to a wall growing spores in some godforsaken basement. It is what _is_. At least, their deaths were swift.

The woman looks at her, sighs, then looks at Joel and hardens herself. "You Firefly?"

"There are no Fireflies anymore," Mel answers tiredly.

"You _were,_ though." She lets the silence rest for a moment.

Mel looks at Joel, helpless as he is, and yet her face goes hard and flinty. "If your people knew half of what he's done, they wouldn't be so eager to protect him."

"All the same. He's kept Jackson safe. Don't matter what else he's done."

"Doesn't it?"

Maria's face goes steely. She looks Mel square in the face. "I ain't asked you why your people did what they did. Frankly, I don't want to know. But what I want - what I _expect_ \- is that you keep whatever you think you know to yourself. Especially as it relates to any of the shit that went down in Salt Lake City."

Mel arches an eyebrow. "Who else knows?"

"Just family. And it's gonna stay that way."

"Why are you so determined to protect him?"

The woman's eyes squeeze shut. "Ain't him I'm protecting. Now, are you gonna come say your piece, or should I just tell them to light the damn pyre?"

Mel turns and follows her out of the room. There's no point in fighting what she can't change.

_tbc_


	3. Problem Lists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Abby reflects on what she's done, Mel remembers the road that brought them there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to get the gang back to Jackson, but things . . . got sidetracked. This chapter is more Abby-centric because her story here is just too interesting not to tell. Next chapter, we'll be back to our regularly-scheduled Joel!whump, and most of the fic will focus on Mel (and the extended Miller family as seen through her eyes), but Abby is going to do things from time to time.

It's been a month since Jerry died, and Abby looks thin and haggard. Their little band is well-supplied - they raided a FEDRA food shipment near the California border and made off with enough canned food and ration bars to get them most of the way to Seattle - but the kid will rarely eat more than a couple of bites, no matter how much Mel cajoles. Tonight, she's sitting by the fire with a paperback in her lap, but her eyes aren't moving. Mel sits beside her. "You should get some shut eye. We're hitting the road early tomorrow."

Abby looks up, startled, as if she hadn't noticed Mel's approach. She shakes her head, glancing out at the encampment. Some two dozen Fireflies agreed to follow Owen and Mel and check out the WLF as a landing spot. Well, ex-Fireflies. That's what they are now. They're huddled in the shelter of an old parking garage. They were only able to salvage one truck from St. Mary's, so they're using that to move equipment while they hoof it most of the way. "I've got watch in an hour," Abby says.

"All the more reason to get a catnap now."

The girl doesn't respond. She barely talks these days, but Mel knows why she doesn't want to sleep. Last night, her screams woke half the camp.

"What're you reading?"

She holds up the book so Mel can see the cover. It shows a young girl sitting on a set of stairs wearing a forlorn look above the word _Atonement_ , printed in blood-red.

"It any good?"

Abby shrugs. A month ago, she would have rattled on for hours about characters and themes and plot twists. Now, she just says "The kid's an idiot."

Mel is searching for something to say - some way to draw her out - but the sudden crack of rifle fire drives it out of her mind in a millisecond. She jumps to her feet, reaching for her handgun, but the bone-rattling boom of an explosion knocks her flat again. She lands with her leg half in the campfire and has to roll and slap at the flames eating into her pant leg. That'll hurt like hell later.

"Hunters!" Manny bellows. He drops into cover and sprays machine gun fire into the dark. Voices and screams are overlapping, but they've all had training and know what to do. More gunfire rings out - shotguns and rifles and pistols.

Mel sits up and swallows a curse. The bomb that knocked her down hit the truck, and now the cab is in flames. A few bodies lie near it, and Owen is rolling away with his jacket on fire. Mel grabs Abby's blanket, staggers the few steps, and throws it over him, beating at the flames. As gunshots ring over their heads, she turns back, meaning to ask Abby for help dragging him away. Her eyes widen and she lunges back. "Abby, no!"

The girl's been hit. A ragged piece of shrapnel protrudes from her left bicep, from what was probably a pipe bomb, but she's sitting up. Grasping the metal with her other hand. Before Mel can get to her, she yanks hard, removing the shrapnel and releasing a pumping torrent of blood. Mel drops into a crouch beside her and pushes her flat on her back. The pain probably hasn't hit her yet, but Abby's face is already white and clammy from the shock. Mel grabs her right hand and presses it over the wound. "Hold this and squeeze. Hard as you can." Blood is still seeping in between her fingers, making them slippery. Mel rips her pack open, grabs a gauze sponge, and makes Abby hold that against the wound instead. It's not enough.

It takes a few seconds to find the flat stick and thin cord in the depths of her pack, but it feels much longer. She takes off the thick leather belt that holds up her pants. "You're gonna be fine. Abby, look at me, I need you to stay awake, okay?" Mel's not sure how much she can hear. Her face is covered in soot and there's blood trickling from one of her ears. She meets Mel's gaze, though, and gives her a short nod. 

"I need to put a tourniquet on this for now." She wraps the leather around the skinny arm, loops it around the stick, and twists the stick to tighten. Abby's face clenches and she lets out a noise that's halfway between a grunt and a cry. "I know, I know. I'll get you pain meds in a second." She tightens until the spurting from Abby's arm slows to a trickle, then stops entirely. She ties off the stick with the cord so that it can't spin back and then fumbles in her bag for a syringe and a small bottle of saline.

"I'm gonna give you morphine," she lies, "It'll help, but you need to ride this out." She jabs the needle in Abby's other shoulder and the girl sags with relief. They ran out of morphine weeks ago, but Abby doesn't know that, and the placebo effect is more powerful than people give it credit for.

"Mel!" That's Nora's voice. She's crouched by Owen but staring at the truck. "The medicine!"

"I've gotta go," she tells Abby, "Just stay down. I'll come back for you."

Abby's way too young to be wounded and by herself in a combat situation, but there's nothing Mel can do about that. If the flames keep spreading, they'll lose everything in the truck. She runs over and starts grabbing crates out of the bed with Nora. "Two o'clock!" Manny yells and a half dozen guns spray bullets in that direction. The pain from her burns is catching up with Mel, but there's no time to think about that. She glances back at Abby and swears loudly.

"C'mon, Mel!" Nora barks, but Mel leaves her and runs back to Jerry's daughter. She's fumbling with the knotted tourniquet, trying to unwrap it.

"Abby, no." Mel pushes her hand down and holds it there.

The girl is panting for breath. Involuntary tears cut tracks through the grime on her face, but her voice is just breathy and strained. "Feels like my arm's gonna fall off!"

"I know it hurts, but you have to leave it on."

"It's worse than the fucking bullet!"

"I'm gonna give you a little more morphine." Mel repeats the 'dose.' "You have to leave it on. It's saving your life." She waves over one of the infantrymen. "Charlie! Stay with her."

The hunters are getting closer on the flanks. Mel catches only glimpses of them - burly men clad in leather. She draws her handgun and snaps off a few shots.

A heavy weight catches her from the side and she can't help but scream, wondering dimly how one of them managed to get the jump on her. He's a big guy with a coarse beard and a twelve gauge shotgun, but rather than shoot, he rams her in the gut with the butt of it, dropping to the pavement. Charlie swings his rifle around, but the gun jams, and before he can reload, the hunter spins and blows a bloody crater in his chest. Abby is somehow on her feet and lunges at him, but he swats her to the ground easily. The hunter kicks Mel's handgun away and drives a boot into her ribs. Mel curls in a ball, trying to keep her dinner where it belongs, trying not to think about the kind of hunters who would shoot a man but leave a woman and a teenage girl alive.

A gunshot rings out at close range, and he drops to his knees without a sound. Before he slumps forward, Mel sees the hole in his face - the exit wound. She turns to find Abby holding Mel's pistol in a shaking hand. She swallows hard. Mel's pretty sure she's never killed a person before.

The gunfire is petering off. "I think that's the last of them," Manny calls out. 

They fall silent. For a moment, the only sounds are lungs panting for breath and the stifled groans of the wounded. Mel pushes herself up, holding her ribs, and kneels beside Abby. "Are you okay?"

The girl is gasping. Her eyes dart back and forth from Charlie to the fallen hunter. Finally, she looks away, back towards the still-burning truck. "Owen," she says at last.

Mel looks. He's rolled onto his back and is trying to groan when it's clear he'd rather scream. Mel grabs her pack. "I'll help him. You stay here and drink some water. We'll get you fixed up soon. Abby . . ." She clasps the side of her face. "You saved my life."

She just nods, not really hearing her.

_/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/_

The Wyoming mountains aren't easy to cross at any time of year. In the dead of winter, on foot with just three of them, the trek is less "frustrating" than "life threatening." The surviving Wolves are moving fast, hoping to find shelter or at least a defensible position before night falls or the weather changes. The Jackson crew gave them back their packs and coats - otherwise, this would be just a slow and creative death sentence - but they don't have a single weapon between them. They even took Manny's pocket knife, so Abby's not sure how they're supposed to open the cans in their packs.

She stumbles down a snow-slick slope, trying avoid a broken ankle that would probably mean her death. Owen and Manny are waiting at the base of the hill, on a road that she hopes is Route 22. Manny steadies her as she joins them, but she doesn't take his hand. The little bitch from Jackson broke her left thumb and the last two fingers on her right hand. She can't get her gloves on, past the swelling, so she's shoved both hands inside her jacket and is trying to ignore the steady throb. Her face and ribs are a good distraction. They bore the brunt of Tommy Miller's revenge. Taking a full breath sends a quick knife of pain through her, so she's cracked at least one rib. Her left eye is swollen most of the way shut, and the right is a little blurry, too.

Manny's face is similarly, though less-spectacularly bruised. He points up the road a little ways. "Gas station up ahead. Might be our best option." Abby nods and trudges after him.

They get lucky, though by now Abby treats luck with deep suspicion. The gas station has a small convenience store which was thoroughly looted ages ago, but the structure is sound and no one ever bothered to board up the windows. They're able to climb in and shove metal shelves against the doors and windows. That should be enough to keep out most infected, unless another horde comes through. Owen pokes around in the back and gathers stacks of newspapers, magazines, and flattened cardboard boxes - enough to make a fire so they can at least dry off. While Manny lights it in an old metal trashcan, Abby strips, one layer at a time, mechanically taking stock of her injuries as she does so. When she's down to just her pants and shirt - both splattered with Joel's blood and her own - she sits down, sighs, and drops her head to her knees. "What now?"

"This road should take us as far as Idaho," Owen says in a flat, dead tone of voice, "We'll set out at dawn, as long as the weather holds."

Abby stares up at him. "You can't be serious."

"What do you mean?"

"What about Mel? We can't just leave her there!"

"We don't have a choice!"

"Owen!"

"No! We'd be putting her at risk, and for what? We've got no weapons, and even if we did, can you even fight like that?"

"How about you worry about your wounds and let me worry about mine? Oh, wait, you don't have any because you just surrendered like a little . . ."

"Abby." Manny cuts her off wearily. He shakes his head. "He's right. We have to get to Seattle."

" _Thank_ you," Owen huffs.

Manny spins on him. "Oh, don't thank me, you fucking pendejo. We have to go because _you_ sold us out!"

"What?"

"Well, what else would you call it? Letting yourself get taken hostage when we still had a chance?"

"They'd have killed Mel!"

"And after? When you started singing to Tommy Miller in about thirty seconds flat?"

"They _were_ killing Abby!"

"Isaac would've had you shot on sight for that!"

"Well, Isaac's not here! I did what I had to do."

Manny turns to Abby. "I couldn't hear it all. He gave them Seattle, didn't he?"

She nods.

Manny's jaw clenches. He shakes his head. "We have to get back and warn Isaac. That was a big settlement. If they retaliate, with how stretched we are from the Scars . . . could do a lot of damage."

Abby just swallows. "You're right."

Manny steps behind the check-out counter and grabs a baseball bat. "I'll take first watch. Keep the fire going."

He crosses the room and sits on an old cooler, staring out the window with the makeshift weapon over his knees.

Owen hesitates a moment, then sinks down to sit beside Abby. He takes her hands and inspects the damage. "We can make splints." 

Abby nods and holds still while he immobilizes the broken fingers and thumb using strips of cardboard and masking tape. "Manny will cool down," she tells him wearily, "And . . . for what it's worth . . . I would've done the same thing."

He just nods. He can't say the same about _her_ actions. He'd never. Not in a million years.

Abby stares at her hands. Now that they've found something like safe harbor, it's all hitting her at once. The club jarring in her hands. Tommy's fists thudding across her face. ' _Why don't you say whatever speech you've prepared'_ and ' _Just had to prove your fucking point_.' ' _Do her last'_ and ' _She wouldn't have made it'_ and ' _We can't lose him_.' She was so close - she was so _fucking close_ \- to just having it be over. It was like the universe saw what a shitty thing had happened and delivered that one opportunity to make things right. Justice, gift-wrapped and walking straight into her hands, and she found a way to fuck it up.

Owen reads her face. He's annoyingly good at that. "We knew it was a long shot," he says quietly, in a tone that makes her actually forgive him for costing them the fight, "We all knew what we were getting into."

She shakes her head. "He's probably going to die. And when he does, they'll kill her."

He swallows. "I don't think so. The woman - Maria? She doesn't seem like the type."

" _Everyone_ is the type."

"Really? Would you? If one of them tried to save one of us and failed, would you kill them anyway?"

She closes her eyes, thinking about Joel pulling her from the horde's grasping arms. After everything, Owen still wants to believe the best of her. She remembers every swing, every thud of metal against flesh, every stifled cry, and all the while she didn't realize it was _Mel_ she was hurting.

She doesn't respond. After a moment, Owen looks away. "Mel's smart and she's damn good at her job. And Joel's a tough old psychopath. She's gonna be fine. We have to believe that."

Belief - like _luck_ \- is one of those things Abby's considering swearing off. It doesn't matter. They have to get going at first light, or more people will be at risk. She wraps herself in a blanket, drops her head to her pack, and drops off to sleep in moments, the way that only a soldier can.

When the nightmares come, the operating room is the same, but instead of just green scrubs and the expanding pool of blood, her father is lying on his face, leg torn to splinters, eyes swollen shut from blue-black bruising. And she almost isn't surprised.

_/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/_

Joel bleeds through his bandage in just eight hours. Mel scrubs the sleep out of her eyes and goes to change it. Ellie holds his leg and helps her re-wrap the splint. The girl's face is stoic. Joel's, still, is completely slack.

Full dark fell a couple of hours ago. Most of the others are sleeping on the upper level of the house. Just as Mel ties off the bandage, they turn at the creak of a foot on the stairs. Dina steps inside, wearing a soft expression. "Hey."

Ellie stands and Dina wraps her in a hug and Mel realizes they're more than just comrades. More than _friends_ , even. After a long moment, they separate and Dina settles her hands on the younger woman's shoulders. "Are you okay?"

Ellie nods. "Worried about you. When you didn't come back, Maria said you'd probably holed up at the ski cabins for the night."

"Hank and Seth did. But, we saw the smoke before sunset. Worried there might be more trouble."

Ellie shakes her head. "Just the dead Wolves. That's what they call themselves."

"Fitting." She pauses. "How is he?"

Ellie looks down and shrugs. Dina looks at Mel, who keeps her face neutral. "He's stable. No more seizures. Vitals are good."

She nods and turns back to her . . . friend? Lover? Whatever they are. "You should get some rest. You're beat."

Ellie shakes her head sharply. "I'm not leaving her alone with him!"

"Well, duh." Dina lays a hand gently along her jaw. "I can keep watch for now. We'll do it in turns."

"Dina . . ."

"It's okay. Just rest."

Ellie lets herself be towed over to the couch and eased down. She's asleep in moments.

Dina comes up to squat beside Mel. She reaches out and lays a hand on Joel's blanket-covered shoulder. Mel checks the circulation in his toes one more time, then whisks the blanket over his leg. She sits back, stares at Dina, and waits. The other woman glances at her, then away. She gives a contemptuous snort. _"May your death be swift,"_ she recites.

Mel's breath catches. She sinks down a little with relief. Part of her - a big part - didn't believe they'd actually let them go.

Dina shakes her head. "You people are fucking psychopaths, you know that?" Without waiting for a response, she steps back to sit on the floor, leaning against the couch. Mel blocks her out and leans forward to do another neuro check.

_May it be swift_ indeed. That's probably the most Mel can hope for, once Tommy and the rest realize what's really going on. While she does her exam, her brain runs on autopilot, characterizing Joel's injuries, sorting his problems into a neat and orderly list. 

Radial fracture, non-displaced. Prognosis: good. Needs definitive stabilization.

Extensive contusions and facial lacerations. Prognosis: good. Moderate risk of infection.

Close-range shotgun blast to the proximal tibia, artery damaged but tied off, extensive soft tissue trauma. Prognosis: guarded-to-good for survival with treatment, poor-to-guarded for limb sparing, poor-to-grave for return to full function. Needs several weeks of open wound management prior to surgical closure. Skin grafting and orthopedic surgery likely impossible due to circumstances. Splint management and a skin flap will have to do. Amputate once the family gives consent. _If_ the family gives consent.

Extensive traumatic brain injury with epidural and subdural hematomas, new-onset seizures, GCS of 8 after loading pentobarbital. Prognosis: poor-to-guarded for survival, poor-to-grave for long-term meaningful recovery.

Mel looks back at Ellie and Dina, keeping her face carefully neutral. They're right to hate her, for all the reasons they think and more. She's stringing them along. This kind of head injury . . . people don't come back from this. And, yeah, miracles happen and she's seen some patients recover that she was sure were goners, but she's seen way more who didn't. Joel might be a vegetable. Or comatose for years. Or too disabled to talk or walk or function without full-time nursing. They won't know for sure until the pentobarbital wears off, but unless he's part of the lucky one percent, he's not going to be what he was. And when Ellie and Tommy and the rest figure that out, there's gonna be hell to pay.

But.

But, for now, he's stable and his heart is beating and that's enough for his family. And every minute that he's here, Owen and Abby and Manny are getting farther away. She has to keep this going as long as she can - at least until her friends put a few more miles between them. She can't risk Jackson going after them.

She stares down at Joel's face and fleetingly wonders if he's in pain. She pushes the thought aside. There's no room for it.

She lays a hand on his chest and wants to say a blessing, but she's not sure which part of the Wolves' benediction she wants to apply to him.

_/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/_

Once the campsite is secured and they're sure all the hunters are dead, Mel goes to work putting the wounded back together. Owen's burns aren't as deep as she feared, though he'll have some nasty scars. There's not much to do besides slather them with ointment and bandage them. They lost six of their own in the ambush: Charlie and two of the perimeter guards to shotgun wounds, the rest from close proximity with the explosion. It's over an hour before Mel can turn her attention to Abby's arm, but the girl waits stoically, seeming much older than her sixteen years.

They have a little lidocaine left, though she has to use it sparingly. Mel numbs as much as she can and sutures the wound, tying off bleeders as she goes. "Okay," she tells Abby at last, "Tourniquet's coming off."

She loosens it by degrees and Abby winces. Mel knows from experience that the blood rushing back into her arm feels like being injected with venom or acid. She gives her a minute, then checks that her fingernails are pinking up.

Abby is staring at the one she killed. They've stripped him for gear but found nothing besides some booze and a shotgun with just a couple of rounds left. "How many of them were there?"

Mel glances at the hunter, then away. His jacket is emblazoned with some kind of snake motif. A bunch of them are wearing that. "Twelve. They thought they could take us by surprise."

"And they got six of ours?"

"Charlie, Ben, Tim, the Ramos twins, and Nancy."

Abby shakes her head. "I tried to pull him off of you. He was so strong."

Mel carefully hides a snort at the implication that a teenage girl should've been able to overpower a grown man with one arm. "Well, you're alive. He's not. So, I know which one of you was stronger."

She looks down at her knees. "At . . . at the hospital," she says haltingly, "That was all just one man?"

Mel's jaw grinds. "Yeah. Joel Miller."

"How?"

She's asked _why_ before, but never _how_. Mel searches for words, mostly without success. "We'll never know for sure. He was a criminal - a smuggler from Boston. People like that don't live long unless they're really good at killing."

A week ago - maybe even an hour ago - that would have scared Abby. Now, she just presses her lips together. "I need to get stronger."

Mel rubs her forearm to encourage blood flow. "Let's worry about that when you're not full of holes."

"You don't understand. I'm going after him."

"Abby . . ." Mel takes her by the shoulders. "Look . . . you did great today, and I am so proud of you. But, you wouldn't last five minutes against Joel. You would die, and that's not what your dad would want."

Abby's eyes are dry and hard. "I'm not saying today. I don't care if it takes months or . . . years, probably, but sooner or later, I'm gonna track him down and only one of us is walking away." She shrugs. "It's going to be me."

Mel sighs and wraps a bandage around her bicep. Once it's taped off, she grabs a bottle of water and a slightly-singed ration bar. "Better eat something, then. You wanna be the Terminator, you're gonna need the calories."

Abby takes a short breath, unwraps the bar, and eats.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is very much appreciated. Concrit is also welcome. Were the flashbacks too jarring? Is the medical jargon too jargon-y? Let me know what you think.


	4. Oh Sinners, Let's Go Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Joel's condition stabilizes, Mel and Ellie struggle to find a way both to coexist and to live with what they and their loved ones have done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in getting this posted. Shouldn't be as much of a wait for the next chapter.

Under normal circumstances, Jackson would be about a one-hour walk from the cabin where they're holed up. With Joel strapped into a sledge and drawn behind a horse, it takes well over two hours, and those hours seem to take a decade apiece off of Mel's life expectancy. She walks beside the sledge, with Maria on the other side and Ellie leading the horse. The rest of them have their guns out. They're silent. Watchful. They don't quite believe that Abby and the others aren't coming back, and Mel's not sure if she believes it either. It wouldn't make any tactical sense - they're outmanned and badly outgunned - but a daring rescue attempt would be exactly Abby's style. Mel doesn't know what to hope for. She's on edge, ready to hit the deck at any moment.

It's been almost forty-eight hours and Joel's condition hasn't changed. This is starting to look like a real coma, not just an effect of the medications. He seems stable enough, but that doesn't stop Mel from stopping the whole party four times an hour so she can check his pulse, his breathing, his blood pressure.

She's making lists and running through logistics in her head, but all that gets pushed out of her mind the moment they step through the walls and she discovers that Jackson is basically a Norman Rockwell painting brought to life. Yes, there's walls and guard towers and stables, but once they get past that, the town opens up into a commercial district of markets and shops and pubs, all decked out in twinkling lights, though Christmas was almost two months ago. There are people in the street shopping or shoveling snow or just bustling from place to place, but they stop what they're doing as Mel and the others pass. Voice after voice falls silent and face after face stares out at them. The people of Jackson are clad in flannel and leather and rough canvas. They have a hard, proud look about them, but there's fear in their eyes when they look at Joel. To say nothing of the hatred and disgust that twists at their faces when they look at Mel.

They left most of the horses back at the stables - all but the one pulling the sledge - but the soldiers stay clustered around Joel in close formation. It feels eerily like a funeral procession. Here and there, some townsperson - usually a gray-headed patriarch or matriarch - will split off from the crowd and approach Tommy or Maria. Maria looks every bit the leader Mel has pegged her as, clasping hands and accepting sympathies and doling out a few quiet words here and there. Tommy responds to the well-wishers mostly with grunts, shakes of the head, and monosyllables. His eyes are on the ground.

A child about six or seven years old suddenly darts out of the crowd and ducks past Dina and Jesse. He holds a sheet of paper clutched to his chest, and he doesn't stop until he's right beside the sledge and staring down at Joel's face. He holds out the paper and seems confused when Joel doesn't reach for it. Mel puts a hand on the kid's shoulder. "I can make sure he gets that, if you want." The boy looks up at her, wide eyes in a pale face. He drops the drawing and dashes back to the shelter of a building. Mel picks up the paper, brushes off a bit of snow, and unfolds it. It's drawn in crayon and depicts two people - men, probably, though it's hard to tell - sitting astride green and purple horses and holding rifles. One of the men has a brown ponytail while the other has spiky black hair. They both have stars on their chests, like the sheriffs from old Westerns. There's a few scribbled words at the bottom: _GEt weL SooN._ Mel sighs and tucks the drawing inside Joel's jacket.

All in all, she's relieved when they leave the downtown area behind and split off onto a residential street. It's . . . abnormal how normal everything looks. The houses are a bit weathered and the paint is peeling, but sidewalks are neatly shoveled and many of the yards have tree houses or tire swings. Mel knew that Jackson was a built-up, fortified town, but she didn't expect Joel Miller the mass murderer to be living in suburbia. Yet, here they are, stopping in front of a two-story clapboard house landscaped with shrubbery. Christ, he's even got a mailbox with his name on it.

Mel forces down resentful thoughts of Seattle families sleeping ten to a room and focuses on the logistics. "Joel lives here alone?"

Maria shrugs. "He likes his space."

Mel frowns. "He needs round-the-clock care. Even working 24/7, I can't do it all on my own."

Ellie is close enough to overhear. She scowls. "As if we'd leave you alone with him!"

Maria puts a hand on her shoulder. "Ellie's studio is right out back. And Tommy is going to move in for a while. As long as it takes."

"Still might not be enough."

"You say the word and you'll have more help. As much as he needs. We take care of our own, here."

Mel nods and focuses on undoing the straps that bind Joel to the sled. Tommy, Seth, and Jesse close in around them and she gives them a brief nod. "Just like we practiced." While she stabilizes Joel's head, the men reach under him and interlock their arms as a stretcher. "One, two, _three._ " They lift and she focuses on climbing a couple of stairs without slipping in the light snow. Joel hasn't been quite as diligent about the shoveling as some of his neighbors.

Ellie darts ahead of them onto the porch and opens the front door. There are people inside already - two teenage boys and a small Asian woman. The woman grabs Ellie's sleeve. "Hey. Are you okay?"

Ellie shrugs her off. "I'm fine." She waves Mel and the rest of them through. "C'mon. You can put him down on the couch."

They carry Joel into the living room and settle him on the couch. Only then does Mel lift her head and look around. Even after the trek through Jackson, this . . . isn't what she expected. Bookshelves line one wall, stocked with books and knick knacks. The fireplace is neatly dusted and holds a couple of framed photos. A guitar sits on a stand by the window. Mel shakes her head and crosses the hallway into the dining room. The younger of the teenage boys stands by the table, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. "We got as much as we could from the old nursing home," he says.

Mel inspects the plastic-wrapped supplies spread across the table. Catheters. Fluid bags. Feeding tubes. A steel bedpan and a couple of cotton hospital gowns. Gloves and gauze and bandaging material. She nods. "Any antibiotics?"

"All of that got moved to the town's stockpiles and used up ages ago."

She drags her fingers through her hair and does a mental calculation. She's got enough for about a week. Well, they'll just have to figure something out. That's a problem for tomorrow. She turns back to Joel. Ellie sits perched on the edge of the coffee table, just staring at him. Maria is politely shooing people out the door. Mel thinks about the drawing in Joel's jacket. Get well soon. She can't put this off any longer; she needs to have a conversation with the family about reasonable expectations. She gathers her nerve, steps back into the living room, and glances from Ellie to Tommy. "Can we talk?"

Dina starts to go, but Ellie grabs her hand so she stays. Maria gently but firmly nudges the Asian girl out, closes the door, and comes to lean against the wall. Tommy's still staring at his feet, his expression lost.

Mel twines her fingers together and grips tight to hide her nervousness. "You got something to say?" Ellie says sharply.

Mel meets her gaze. "Just that I want us all to be on the same page. This is going to be a marathon, not a sprint." She purses her lips. "Joel's in a coma and I don't know how long it'll take him to wake up. Could be days. Could be months."

"Could be never," Tommy says shortly.

Mel meets his gaze. "Yeah." She pauses. "When he does wake up, though, that's just step one. He had a massive brain bleed. He could have memory loss, personality changes, learning disabilities. He might not be able to talk or use the right half of his body. And that could all take a long time to come back, if it ever does."

Maria folds her arms. "You're saying he could be a vegetable."

"Or severely disabled. He might never be able to live on his own again." Mel glances at Joel's leg and reflects that even if his brain makes a miraculous recovery, there's more than one reason they might not want him all alone in this two story house. She shakes the thought away. One problem at a time. "I'm just saying that you need to prepare yourselves."

Tommy shakes his head. "You don't know Joel. He's the toughest son of a bitch on the damn planet. He'll get through this."

Mel looks at him. "I'm just saying . . ."

"No." Ellie's voice is sharp. Her jaw is a hard line. "You don't know what he's been through. We know him, you don't, and he's gonna be okay." But, there's conflict in her face, and Mel's not sure that she even believes herself.

Mel swallows. "We're doing all that we can." She tugs the cushions off the back of the couch one by one so that she can roll her patient onto his back. "One thing at a time. I need to get him into a hospital gown and place a feeding tube."

_/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/_

At first, Mel's not sure what woke her. She sits up slowly in her armchair. Her eyes go automatically to Joel, but he's out still. In the white-blue glow from the porch light outside, his face is almost ghostly, but he's breathing steadily.

"Are we being selfish?"

That's Ellie's voice, drifting in through the window. Mel glances over her shoulder and sees her with Tommy, both of them leaning against the railing with their backs to her. Mel sinks back down in the chair, in case they turn.

"What's got you talkin' like this?"

"Well? _Are_ we? What if he doesn't make it? And we're just prolonging things? Dragging it out. How does that make us any different from Abby?"

"Now, that ain't even close to the same thing!"

"Isn't it?"

"We're trying to save him. She was just killing him slow."

"And what if we _save him_ , but he's not _him_ anymore? What if he ends up a vegetable? Or just so hurt he can never leave his own house?"

"Joel's a fighter. A _survivor_."

"Can you really picture that, though? _Joel_ , not able to walk or talk? Not able to feed himself or piss on his own?"

"Sometimes that's what fighting looks like. If there's a chance, he'd want to try."

She's shaking her head. Her shoulders are slumped with weariness. "I feel like I don't know _what_ he'd want anymore."

When Tommy next speaks, his voice is so low that Mel almost misses it. "Yeah you do. You've known for years." She turns to glare at him and Mel sees her face in profile. She looks angry, but Tommy doesn't rise to it. He gently places a hand on her shoulder. "He's got unfinished business. You know that as well as I do. Ellie . . . all the shit that's happened, he'd go through it ten more times if it meant a chance to make things right between you two."

"Oh, so it's on _me,_ is it? He's gotta go through hell because _I'm_ the asshole that wouldn't give him the time of day? That's just great." Her voice is bitter and full of pain. "I already know that this shit is my fault, Tommy! You don't have to find new ways to remind me."

"I didn't _say_ that. What the hell are you on about?"

"It's _all_ on me. If it weren't for me, they never would've come for him and Joel would be fine."

"You don't know that!"

"Don't I? They were from _Salt Lake City_. They came because of _me._ Because he saved me."

Silence reigns for a moment. Mel stares at Joel's shadowed face. She remembers the blood-spattered hallway, remembers moving from body to body, mechanically, checking for pulses that weren't there. She remembers how it took her and Manny together to peel Abby up off the floor of the operating room. _Because he saved me._ Somehow, she's never thought of it like that. As the act of saving someone. She weighs all those bloody bodies against the small form of Jane Doe, draped in her hospital gown. It's not enough. There's no way to get that equation to balance.

"It's not your fault," he says quietly.

"Bullshit."

"It ain't your fucking _fault_ , Ellie! Not what happened to the Fireflies and not what happened to Joel. You ain't to blame for the choices other people make. Whether it's Joel or Abby or whoever else."

She doesn't answer. Maybe she can't.

"These last couple years have been hard on him," Tommy says quietly, "He tries not to show it, but I know. It would mean the world to him if you could jus' . . . find it in you to give him another chance."

Ellie draws a shuddering breath. "And, if I can't?" Her voice isn't angry. If anything, it's grieving.

"Then, I don't know. But, I know one thing, Ellie: he wouldn't have made it this far if he hadn't saved you. He wouldn't have been fine. You know that." She doesn't answer. There's clearly nothing to say to that. After long moments, he sighs. "I promised Maria I'd check in tonight. I'll be back before dawn. You oughta get some rest."

"Yeah."

Once Tommy is off the porch and around the corner, Ellie's shoulders sag. She turns reluctantly towards the house. Mel has only a moment to make a decision. Maybe she should just feign sleep . . .

She sits up straighter.

Ellie treats every room she enters as enemy territory, even, or perhaps especially, Joel's home. Her eyes are tired but sharp. They flick first to Joel, taking in his slack face and steady breathing. Then, she looks at Mel. Whatever conflict she felt from the conversation with Tommy instantly disappears under a flinty veneer. Her voice is hard.

"Hope you enjoyed the free soap opera."

Mel presses her lips together and keeps her voice carefully civil. "Sorry. Wasn't eavesdropping on purpose."

Ellie just grunts and stoops to gather the stiff, soiled cloth left over from the last bandage change. Mel stands, stretches, and goes to Joel because he's the one, tenuous connection between herself and Ellie. She checks his pulse in his wrist and his neck and the top of his right foot. She keeps her voice even. "You and Joel were on the outs?"

Ellie shrugs. "We had our disagreements. Doesn't matter now."

"What did you fight about?"

For a moment, she thinks Ellie won't respond. Then the girl looks away and snorts. "What do you think? Salt Lake City."

Mel lifts Joel's eyelids one at a time and checks his pupils with a penlight. "You disagreed with what he did?"

"You thought I wouldn't?"

"Even though it saved your life?"

She hesitates, looks at Mel, then looks away. "How long have you known?"

Mel puts her penlight away and grabs a tube of lip balm. "We called you Jane. Jane Doe." She smears a bit of lip balm over Joel's lips to keep them from chapping. "Marlene and Dr. Anderson were the only ones who knew your name. I think they didn't want the rest of us knowing what they meant to do." She pauses. "He killed a lot of people. Getting you out."

Ellie shakes her head and steps close on Joel's other side. "He must've been terrified. That's what I tell myself, every time I think about what he did." She pulls a comb from her pocket and tugs it through his hair, carefully brushing it back, away from the cuts in his scalp. "All those months crossing the country . . . it seemed like everything that moved was trying to kill us, usually for no reason. Got to where we both shot first, asked questions never." She's staring down into his face with something more complicated than love or grief or anger. "After that underpass . . . the water . . . he must've thought I was dead. And then you people took me and had me in the operating room before I even woke up." She shakes her head. "It all just happened so fast. That's the part I don't get - why you wouldn't even wake me up and explain things. I could've talked to him. Said goodbye. Maybe made him understand."

She looks away. Mel stays silent. There's nothing to say to that. Ellie's face hardens a little. "But, who am I kidding? He wouldn't have listened. Not to me or anyone else. He felt how he felt, and he was always gonna do what he did. Even if he knew he was gonna end up here." She closes her eyes. There's pain written across her face. Then, she looks at Mel and seems to compose herself. "I don't know if he's gonna want to live like this. But, he ought to have the choice. He deserves that much."

Mel nods, remembering how desperation faded into weary acceptance on his face when he realized he wasn't getting out of this. How acceptance turned to horror when he realized how it was going to go. "Okay."

Ellie stands and trudges up the stairs, but Mel's pretty sure neither one of them will be sleeping much tonight.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

The nights of fitful catnaps and neuro exams every couple of hours are starting to get to Mel. Her head is pounding and every tap of Tommy's hammer sends another jolt through it. She knows better than to mention her headache. There's still blood crusted around Tommy's temple and Joel's bruises are more black than purple.

Tommy sets the hammer aside and tests the stability of the crude plywood frame. "Try that."

Mel fits the rubber-covered mattress over the frame, hops up, and leans back. It feels stable enough. The cobbled-together bed frame is hinged in the middle so that it can be laid flat or propped up at a thirty or sixty degree angle. She gets down and nods to Tommy. "You try. You're closer to his weight."

While Tommy tests the DIY hospital bed, Ellie enters the room carrying stacks of pillows and bedding. A knock on the front door makes her turn her head, wearily. Dina touches her arm. "I'll get it."

"Tell them to bring pillows next time," the girl says.

The door swings open and Dina's voice turns frosty. "Oh. It's you."

A man clears his throat. "Well . . ." Mel recognizes Seth's voice. "It was pasta night down at the pub. Ain't much, but I figured . . . well, the family's got enough on their minds, okay?"

Dina accepts a dish from him. "Okay."

The man lingers. "So, what, you just living here now?"

"Yeah."

"Does Jesse know?"

Ellie scowls and comes up behind her. "I don't see how that's any of his business. Or yours." She puts an arm around Dina's shoulders.

Mel decides abruptly that she wants nothing to do with whatever drama they've got going on. She gets up and takes the dish from Dina. "I'll take this to the kitchen." She ignores the bickering voices that follow her down the hallway. As she reaches the kitchen, she lifts the handkerchief that covers the dish and inspects the contents. Looks like chicken-etti. The food has been arriving all day from what seems like dozens of concerned neighbors. When Mel first entered the house, the refrigerator contained eight eggs, a glass jug of milk, and a spoiled container of brisket. Now the counters are lined with baskets of baked goods and she's not sure if she can even find a spot in the fridge for the newest offerings. Definitely not in this shallow casserole dish, but maybe she can find some kind of jar. She puts the food down and starts fumbling through the upper cabinets, trying to ignore the weary ache throbbing through her body.

There. She grabs a tall jar that might fit in the refrigerator door. She goes to close the cabinet but pauses when she picks up a familiar smell. She grabs a cloth sack from further back on the shelf, peeks inside, and smiles. _Coffee._ They hadn't had a reliable source of beans back in Seattle, but in Salt Lake City, Jerry always kept some in the back cupboards of his lab. For emergencies, he used to say. After her third mostly-sleepless night in enemy territory, Mel decides that this qualifies. She grinds a scoop of beans, finds a filter in a drawer, and sets a pot on to brew. While it's dripping, she transfers the pasta to the jar and stuffs it in the fridge. There's piles of dirty dishes by the sink, but among them she finds a little brown mug with a picture of an owl on it. She washes it and pours herself a cup from the steaming pot. Ah. Yes, that's the taste she remembers from long nights in the lab, bent over reams of test results and talking about saving the world.

Ellie stomps into the kitchen. "We finally got him to leave. Do we even have room in the fridge for the bigot casserole? There's probably cyanide in it." She stops when she sees Mel and in an instant her face goes from irritated to downright furious. "Hey, what the _fuck_?" She grabs for the mug and Mel jerks back instinctively. Hot coffee splashes on her hands and she drops the cup reflexively. It shatters on the tile and Mel hisses in pain. She turns to rinse her hands under the cold faucet. Ellie's voice is sharp. "What the _actual_ fuck? What, you think because you're sleeping in Joel's house you can just take his stuff?"

Mel feels her temper fray, then snap. "Give me a fucking break, Ellie! It was just a cup of coffee."

" _Just_? Do you have _any_ idea how hard that is to get? How much he had to trade for it? What gives you the fucking right . . ."

"Ellie!" That's Dina's voice and it's sharper than Mel's ever heard it. The woman stands in the doorway and shakes her head. "Let it go."

Ellie glares at Mel for one more moment, then storms out of the room. Mel kneels and starts picking up broken bits of crockery. Dina sighs and grabs a rag. Mel shakes her head. "I've got it."

"Let me help." Dina mops up the coffee then rinses the rag out in the sink while Mel drops the broken mug in the trash can. "If it helps, it's not you she's mad at."

Mel snorts. "Yes it is. Just not about the coffee."

"I'll talk to her."

"No." Mel gathers her resolve. "It ought to come from me."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." She's not, but she lets herself linger just a couple more seconds before turning and following Ellie down the hallway. She finds the girl back in the living room, staring down at Joel with an unreadable expression. Mel clears her throat to announce herself. "We can't keep doing this."

Ellie glances at her, then away. "Doing what?"

"I get it. I do. But, I'm not here to be your whipping boy."

Ellie's face hardens. She looks at Mel, then, pointedly, back at Joel. "Interesting choice of words."

Mel swallows. "Neither one of us asked for this. But, like it or not, we're stuck in this shit situation together. You've gotta find a way to live with that. I'm going to need your help. And you need mine." She pauses. "I didn't know. About the coffee. I'm sorry."

Ellie's jaw tightens and her throat works once. "Apology accepted."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

It's late. Tommy and Dina have already retreated to their respective beds. Mel emerges from the bathroom, washes her hands, and goes to do one last neuro check. Music drifts down the hall - not the artificial echo of a record player but the soft strumming of a live guitar. As Mel approaches the living room, she can make out an accompanying voice - soft and feminine and unsure.

_"To make this man of me . . ."_

Mel eases the door open. For a moment, Ellie doesn't notice her.

_"All my missing stolen parts_

_I've no need for anymore . . ."_

Her voice is breathy - clear, but untrained. The guitar sings for her, though. Her fingers fly across the frets, picking out complex cords. Each touch of the strings is practiced and perfect.

_"I believe . . ._

_I believe 'cause I can see . . ._ "

Mel clears her throat and the music abruptly stops. She keeps her face neutral. "You should keep going, if you can. All the studies say that music is good for the coma patient. It helps stimulate the brain."

Ellie doesn't sing again, but she picks out the melody with elegant fingers. Mel remembers those fingers wrapping around her throat. Snapping Abby's thumb like it was kindling. She sees nothing of that person now. Maybe it's the late hour or the deep exhaustion gripping both of them. Mel sits by her patient's side and checks his reflexes. No change. "Did Joel teach you how to play?"

Ellie grunts. Hesitates. Nods.

Mel glances at her, then back. "I checked out the guitars up in his workshop. Pretty good sound on some of them."

Ellie arches an eyebrow. "You play?"

"Just a little."

Ellie finishes the refrain and lets the instrument fall silent. After a moment, she holds it out to Mel, arching an eyebrow in challenge. Mel takes it with a shrug. It's been years and she was never that good to begin with, but she still has the muscle memory. She pauses, picks a song, and strums.

_"As I went down in the river to pray_

_Studying about that good old way and who shall wear_

_The starry crown, good Lord, show me the way."_

The strings squeak a little at first, but then her fingers settle into the melody.

_"Oh brothers, let's go down_

_Let's go do-own, come on down_

_Oh brothers, let's go down_

_Down in the river to pray . . ."_

Ellie watches, her face inscrutable. "So, you're one of _those_ ," she says when Mel falls silent.

"One of _what_?"

"Church types. Like Seth."

Mel shrugs. "Not really. My parents were. They've been gone a long time." She repeats the melody, without singing this time.

Ellie sighs and reaches out. Her hands are oddly gentle as they adjust Mel's fingers on the fretboard. "Use your ring finger there. That'll make it easier to get to the next chord."

Mel tries it. It works.

Ellie is staring into space. "I never knew mine. I guess I had Marlene, technically, but it's not like she was ever around. I had nobody before Joel."

Mel passes the guitar back. "Nobody picks their family."

The girl smiles tightly and strums the same melody as before. "That's the thing, though. _We_ did." She plays for a few moments. "I have no illusions about him, you know."

Mel grunts.

"About what he did. Yeah, the world would probably be an objectively better place if he'd never made it to Salt Lake City. But, I know why he did it." She shakes her head. "He's not what you people think he is. He's not some kind of animal."

"I never said he was."

"But, you thought it. You had to, to do what you did."

Mel chews on her tongue. "And when you were wrestling with Abby? Were you thinking about _her_ loved ones? Her hopes and dreams? Or were you just reacting?" She pauses, then shrugs. She keeps her voice carefully neutral. "Deep down, we're all animals."

"Maybe."

Ellie puts the guitar down, rests a hand briefly on Joel's forehead, and leaves without another word.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is very much appreciated.


	5. Do No Harm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mel makes a mistake.

Mel wakes to sunlight streaming through the windows of Joel's mudroom. She sits up, puts a hand over her roiling stomach, and grimaces. She's been in Jackson almost four weeks, and so far no one's noticed the four-month swell of her belly. She'll have to tell them soon, she supposes. Once the weather gets warmer, it'll be harder to hide.

She pushes herself up off the narrow mattress and grabs a sweatshirt off of a shelf that used to hold laundry supplies. At least she has her own space, now, even if only a curtain separates it from the kitchen. With Joel still comatose and needing round-the-clock care, sleeping quarters are at a premium. Tommy has moved into Joel's bedroom, with Maria staying over every third or fourth night. Ellie and Dina crammed a futon into Joel's workshop after one too many late night treks across the snowy yard.

There's noise coming from the kitchen. Mel must've slept later than she meant to. She pulls the curtain aside and steps through, stretching. Dina is sitting at the bar, tucking into a bowl of oatmeal. Ellie stands by the stove stirring a large, bubbling pot. Though Joel's bandage changes are every other day now, rather than twice a day, they don't have nearly enough bandage material to dispose of the soiled cloths. They've been scrubbing them out by hand and re-sterilizing as best they can by dunking the fabric in boiling water for ten minutes.

"Morning," Dina says.

Mel tries to rub the crick out of her neck. "Sorry. Overslept. Did you get the morning vitals done?" She grabs a knife, helps herself to two slices of bread, and pops them in the toaster. Any day now, the morning-sickness should be gone. She can't wait.

"They're on the chart." Ellie jerks her head at the thick pad of notepaper they've been using to monitor Joel's progress. Mel glances at it. Heart rate is a little bit up, but blood pressure's still normal. Fever's staying down, which is good because they're almost out of acetaminophen. She'd had her doubts about the quality of the antibiotics they got from the trade caravan two weeks ago, but they seem to be doing the trick.

Mel leaves the chart and opens the fridge. With the limitations of the feeding tube, they've had to get creative about Joel's nutrition. Mel lives in fear of their twenty-five-year-old blender giving out. "We're out of eggs," Ellie says. That's a problem. Scrambled eggs are about the only protein source they've been able to blend fine enough to avoid clogging Joel's NG tube.

"I can run downtown and pick up more," Mel says, "Is there anything else we need?"

"The list is by the door," Dina says, "Money's in the drawer."

Mel nods. She grabs her toast and smears it with blackberry jam before fishing the cash envelope out of the drawer. The Millers never tried to put her under house arrest. There was no need - the walls that keep the infected out are equally effective at keeping her in. She doesn't spend much time out and about in Jackson, though. The townspeople are frigidly polite at best, outright hostile at worst. Besides, Joel's treatments keep her busy.

She checks on him before leaving the house. To create more space, they've moved the couch out of the living room and into the under-utilized dining room. He's propped partially on his side, with pillows under his limbs and supporting his back to avoid bed sores. According to the chart, Ellie and Dina moved him just an hour ago, so it'll be a couple hours before he needs another change of position. The cuts to his head have healed, though the scars still look angry. He's lost a fair amount of weight, despite their best efforts with the feeding tube. Some of that is unavoidable; muscles atrophy when they're not used. His left arm is bound in a cast of white plaster that's starting to smell. They can probably take that off in two weeks. His right leg is still buried in thick bandages. They've gotten lucky there; it got infected, but with regular dressing changes and a good course of antibiotics, the infection seemed to clear up. Under the bandages, the crater in his leg is filling in with new, pink tissue. He'll still need at least one surgery to stretch the skin over the wound. Maybe she can try for that next week, though Mel's nervous about doing it without proper surgical instruments.

She checks his reflexes and finds no change. She does a quick physical exam, checks his back for bed sores, and combs his hair back from his forehead. It's been odd - spending so much time with Joel, touching him so many times every day, all without him being aware. At first, she could barely look at him without simmering resentment, but that's faded. It's hard to hold a grudge against someone so obviously helpless, though she's never quite let herself forget who he is. "Breakfast will be a little late," she says as if he can understand her, "Sue me."

She grabs a jacket - one of Dina's, since Mel's WLF patches don't exactly put the people of Jackson at ease - and heads out the door.

It's a bright, cold morning. A lot of the early spring snow melted the day before only to freeze into black ice overnight. Mel picks her way carefully down the street, carrying a wire shopping basket. A few of Joel's neighbors are emerging from their homes - headed to work or carrying out their own morning errands - but they ignore Mel, and she them. Her legs are just starting to sting from the cold and the morning exercise when she rounds the block and reaches a few shops. She stops at the nearest one - a ramshackle structure labeled with _"Eggs, Milk, Bread"_ in faded white spray paint. She's well-known here, at least. After the bell above the door announces her presence, the woman behind the counter lifts her head and gives her a cool nod.

"Good morning, Sharon," Mel says evenly. The shopkeeper doesn't respond. Behind her, a teenage stock boy looks up, then back down at his broom. Mel steadily ignores their lack of response. She consults the shopping list, though there aren't many options for sustenance in Jackson, at least not at this time of year. She picks her way through the cluttered aisles, selecting first a dozen potatoes, then a half dozen onions, then two loaves of bread. The coolers in the back of the store hum softly. The milk is clearly fresh - it's still frothy with cream. The cooler labeled "eggs," though, is bare. Mel's brow furrows and she looks up at the store's owner. "Are you out?"

Sharon's lip twists. Shortages are no new thing for Jackson - everyone has to tighten their belts at times. After a moment, though, the woman looks at the boy and clears her throat. "Jason. Go get the eggs we kept back for Joel."

The boy disappears into a back room and emerges a moment later, carrying a carton of two dozen eggs. Mel swallows. They've been going through six or eight eggs a day just for the feeding tube meals. It's starting to put a strain on the local supply. "Thank you," she says quietly. She pulls the cash envelope from her jacket, but Sharon shakes her head.

"Tell Tommy his money's still no good here."

Mel knows better than to argue. She nods, accepts the carton, and flees. She emerges, blinking, into the sunshine, shakes her head, and turns back towards Joel's place. "Hey! Mel!"

She turns, recognizing the voice of one of the few Jacksonites who will still give her the time of day. A man steps out from the shadow of a darkened pub, holding a stoneware dish. She smiles a little. "Morning, Seth."

He grunts and shoves the food at her. "Got some dinner. Tell them it's from Miss Luisa. That's my neighbor."

Mel peeks under the lid and finds at least two pounds of pulled pork. She arches an eyebrow. "Is it?"

Seth rolls his eyes. "Tell them whatever you need to, just make sure they don't throw it out. That girl needs to eat."

He's not wrong. Ellie's lost a couple pounds, even as Mel's gained a few. She looks at him. "Why are you still doing this, Seth?"

He snorts. "When they hate my guts, you mean?"

Mel shrugs. Every interaction between the Millers and Seth _does_ tend to devolve into insults and name calling, and yet he's still the first to volunteer any time they need extra hands.

Seth rolls one shoulder. "Yeah, Ellie and I have our differences. And not _just_ about what you're thinking. I believe in families. I also believe in children honoring their fathers."

Mel's lip twitches. She's pretty sure she's seen Seth's younger son, Luke, checking out Jesse's butt when he's not looking. And if _she's_ noticed, there's not much chance that Seth hasn't. The man's face hardens. "That last night, before you people came . . . I almost got into it with Joel. Ellie and her girl were making a show of it, right in front of a bunch of kids. I called them on it, and he stepped in. That girl can do no wrong in his eyes."

Mel keeps her face carefully neutral. Seth glances at her, then away. His brow furrows, as if her lack of reaction is still a reaction.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter. I owe Joel."

Mel arches an eyebrow. "For what?"

The old man looks her square in the face, then glances away. "We almost didn't make it. Luke and Daniel and me. I lost their mother and Calvin, our eldest, before we even got out of California. By the time we made it this far, we were walking skeletons, living on borrowed time." He hesitates. "It was about three years ago and we were on our last legs. We didn't know where we were or where we were going. We finally heard gunfire and ran _towards_ it. That's how desperate we were." He stares down at his hands. "Joel and Tommy were out on their route, clearing infected. My boys were so scared. Luke jumped out of cover and ran straight at 'em. Tommy almost blew his head off. Anybody would've. He must've thought he was infected." He shrugs. "Joel saw what was up and he stopped him. I owe the man."

Mel looks away. Panicked kids running at you out of nowhere have got to be in the top ten most-dreaded situations for any soldier. Mel's seen a few times where it went the other way. And in Seattle, with the Scars, she's known some good men and women who kept their fingers off the triggers in those scenarios and paid for it with their lives. "Good reflexes," she says after a moment, "And a little bit of luck."

Seth makes a noncommittal noise. "Anyway, tell them the barbecue's from Miss Luisa."

"Your secret's safe with me."

She turns and heads back towards Joel's place, balancing the casserole dish on top of the egg carton in her basket. The street's more crowded than it was before. Most people are due to report for their work details shortly. Here and there, people are scattering wood chips on the sidewalks, to help deal with the ice. Mel keeps her head down. There's a reason she tries to rise early and deal with these morning errands while most of Jackson is still waking up. The hard stares follow her everywhere she goes. Men make a point of bumping her in the shoulder as they pass and mothers with children cross the street to avoid her. She'll always be a Wolf, to them.

Mel made a few attempts to reach out, early on, but she's never been a people person. Lacking any will or ability to connect with these people on a personal level, she's tried to use her medical knowledge to ingratiate herself with Jackson - offering her help to any neighbor in managing hemorrhoids or diabetes or joint pain. So far, she's been soundly rebuffed. Even the people she lives with have rejected her help, be it Ellie with her blisters or Tommy with his bad back or Dina with her stomach bug. The only Jacksonite desperate enough to need her is Joel, who, of course, has no say in the matter.

Still, it's a relief when she makes it back to Joel's and climbs the steps of the porch. She tucks the bread under her arm and pushes the door open. "I'm back," she calls out while tossing the cash envelope on the table by the door.

Tommy is sitting at the dining room table. He looks up and glares reflexively. "Where the hell have _you_ been?"

Under Dina's influence, Ellie has at least made an attempt to be civil. So far, Mel gets no such courtesy from Tommy, but she knows better than to let it rile her. "We were out of eggs," she says evenly, "I picked up a couple things from the store. And we got more sympathy food, so you're off the hook for dinner tonight." She looks past him, at the woman leaning against the wall. "Good morning, Maria."

Tommy's wife nods without uncrossing her arms. "Morning." 

From the serious expressions on both their faces, Mel can tell this isn't a social call. She glances into the living room, where Joel sleeps on. "I should get these cooking. We're already overdue for his morning medications."

"Of course."

Mel steps past them into the kitchen and puts the groceries away. She grabs a bowl, cracks two eggs into it, and starts whisking with a generous splash of milk. All the while, though, she keeps an eye on Tommy and Maria through the open doorway. After a few moments of strained silence between them, Ellie trudges down the stairs and sits on the couch. "Hey, Maria. What's the big emergency?"

The older woman shakes her head. "No emergency, just came to ask a favor."

"She wants us to go back out there," Tommy says with an edge in his voice. Mel misses his expression. She's pulling a frying pan from the cabinet and putting it on the stove to heat.

"Okay?" Ellie's voice is cautious. Mel dumps the eggs in the pan and stirs while stealing glances at them. She sees Maria uncross her arms, then hears the thud and scrape of a chair as she sits down across from Tommy.

"Nothing permanent. I just need one patrol route covered. Hannah and Trevor are out sick."

"Which patrol?"

"This afternoon. Just six hours. A quick sweep, then home before dark."

"Oh, come on, _today_? There's no way!"

"What's wrong with today?"

"Well who's going to watch Joel?"

"Ellie, Joel's been the same for weeks now. He ain't gonna know you were gone."

"That's not the point!"

"Well, what _is_ the point?"

"We promised we weren't going to leave him alone!"

The eggs are still a bit runny, but cooked enough. Mel tips them into the blender and follows them with the usual recipe: a cup of oatmeal, a cup of blackberries, a quarter cup of butter, and enough milk to hold it all together. She turns on the blender and stares as its contents turn from white to yellow, then purple. It's important to blend all of it as finely as possible - otherwise there's a risk of clogging Joel's nasogastric tube. She keeps the blender running for at least a minute longer than she needs to, and thus misses a few words.

When the blender finally buzzes to a stop, she's struck by the silence. She glances at the dining room and struggles not to recoil when she sees three sets of eyes staring back at her.

"Mel," Maria says, in an even, diplomatic tone, "You mind coming in here a moment?"

All of her tube-feeding supplies are in the dining room anyway. Mel lifts the jar off the blender, carefully wipes the side, and steps close to the dining room table. They've been using an old glass milk jug connected to intricate tubing to deliver Joel's meals. Mel picks up the jug, as if that was her intention all along, and pours the purple smoothie into it. "What's the problem?"

Maria smiles tightly. "No problem. Just hoping for a report on how my brother-in-law is doing."

Mel glances at the living room, then back at Maria. "Not much change," she says neutrally. She has her equipment spread out over the scratched surface of the dining table. She connects the jug to its usual tubing. "He's comatose. Vitals are stable. No knowing when he might wake up."

Or _if_. That part is silent.

Maria nods shortly. "You think you can hold down the fort here for a few hours?"

That's new ground. They might let her wander the neighborhood and do their grocery shopping for them, but Tommy and Ellie don't _ever_ leave her alone in the house. For the first week or so, they didn't even want her in the same room as Joel without supervision. "Sure," she says evenly, "I already do most of Joel's treatments anyway. He's due for a bandage change tonight, but we can do that after everybody gets back."

"I'd stay and help if I could. The agriculture crew is having some kind of crisis down at the greenhouses. I've gotta get that sorted out." 

Tommy's face is dark. "Nice to know you're puttin' the damn potato crops ahead of your own family."

"If we don't get the planting done in time, nobody's going to eat this winter. Including my family." 

"Oh, it's always fucking something . . ."

"We really gonna have this fight now?" Maria's voice is sharp. Tommy glances from her to Ellie to Mel. His shoulders slump a little. He doesn't answer, but glares at the blank wall until Maria gives up and turns back to Mel. "Anyway, I really need that patrol covered. I'd appreciate it if you could manage on your own for a little bit."

Mel nods. "It's fine. It's _good_. At some point, you all have to start getting back to your normal lives." Ellie's eyes flash but Mel holds up a hand to forestall an outburst. "I'm just saying that we're in this for the long haul. Getting out for a while and focusing on other things could be good for you. It helps prevent burnout."

Ellie scowls for a moment longer, then looks at Tommy. "What do you think?"

He shakes his head. "We'd be stupid to trust her."

"Well, what choice do we have?"

Mel is watching Maria. The woman didn't build Jackson and keep control of it for years by being incompetent. Something feels off about this particular conflict. Contrived, almost. Every time they've needed an extra set of hands in the past, she's been ready with a volunteer. For her to suddenly need Tommy and Ellie's help on a day when neither Dina nor herself could step in as a babysitter is just too much coincidence. Maria meets her gaze steadily. After a moment, she arches an eyebrow just a little. She's giving Mel a chance to fight her own battles. Mel nods ever so slightly in response and clears her throat.

"I'm standing right here." She doesn't bother keeping the irritation out of her voice. She waits until they're both looking at her, then picks up her stethoscope and drapes it around her neck. "What exactly are you worried I'm going to do?"

Tommy grits his teeth. "I'm sure I don't want to speculate."

"No? Let me, then. If I still wanted Joel dead, I could've killed him about twelve different ways by now. Poison in his food. Air in his IV. A medication overdose. That anti-seizure drug that he gets twice a day? It's the same stuff veterinarians used to use to put animals to sleep. If I was going to hurt him, don't you think I would have done it by now?"

"Right," Ellie snaps, "You're such a saint. I'm sure it's got nothing to do with you knowing what we'd do to you if you ever hurt him again."

Mel meets her gaze evenly. She's not going to get anywhere by defending her ethics. Professing guilt or saying she's a changed woman aren't likely to help either. Tommy and Ellie won't be moved by sentimentality. They respond only to strength. "Do you really think my motives matter? I want the same thing as you - for Joel to make a full recovery. Does it matter whether I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart or just trying to save my own ass?" She pauses. "It's just a few hours. Joel won't even know you're gone."

Ellie gets it, clearly, but she's not quite ready to back down. "And what if he wakes up? And we're not there?"

Mel's shoulders shift. "It doesn't usually happen like that. Most people recover in stages - they start to react more to the world around them without really being conscious. He's not showing any sign of that yet. He's got a long way to go before he's lucid."

"But it does happen. People can wake up from comas suddenly."

"Occasionally. It's rare."

"And what if it happens and we're not there?"

Mel smiles. "Then we'll celebrate when you get back."

She sees immediately that she's misread the room, just a little. Ellie's face turns stormy and Tommy glares too. "What happens," he asks sharply, "If my brother wakes up and there's nobody here with him except one of the bastards that tortured him?"

Mel closes her eyes. God, she is so tired . . . She pulls herself together and works to muster a response. It's not like he's implying anything that's not true. She looks at Tommy, keeping her gaze direct, making no excuse. "He won't remember me. After this kind of head trauma, most people don't remember anything about the actual incident. Sometimes the memories come back later on. In his case, it's probably best if they don't."

He doesn't respond, but she can see that that comforts him, at least a little. Through careful inquiries, she's pieced together that Tommy's own memories of the attack are a bit spotty from the concussion. Ellie, meanwhile, is showing some of the classic hallmarks of PTSD. Both have refused her help in coping with it.

Tommy looks down at his hands and sighs. "Guess we're goin' on patrol." He stands. "I better go change."

Ellie nods as she gets up as well. "My shotgun's in about twenty pieces right now. Give me five minutes."

Mel breathes a sigh of relief as they both step away - Tommy climbing the stairs to the bedroom, Ellie headed out the back towards her studio. She glances at the clock. Joel's over two hours late for his tube feeding and medications. She collects what she needs and heads toward the living room. Maria follows her and pauses in the doorway while Mel hangs the liquid diet to drip. "You handled that pretty well."

Mel wipes the end of the NG tube and flushes a bit of water through it with a syringe. She glances at Maria and smiles a little. "Thanks." She hooks up the tubing and starts it dripping. "Felt a little put on the spot."

Maria's lip twists wryly. It's not quite a smile. "You're right, though. Them staying cooped up in this place ain't doing anybody any good."

Mel grabs a pill bottle from the bookshelf, dumps out the correct dose, and starts grinding up the tablets with a mortar and pestle. "Seemed a little tense between you and Tommy."

Maria looks away. "Yeah."

"You two gonna be okay?"

"We'll get through it, probably." She folds her arms and cracks her jaw. "You'd have no way of knowing, but this ain't him. Tommy . . . he's always been an optimist. He was always looking for the best in people. That's why I fell for him. I used to wonder how a person like that had survived out there for so long."

Mel looks down at Joel. She only saw it for a minute, but she remembers that side of Tommy. Back at the Baldwin place, he was so _comfortable_ , striding through rooms like he owned them, chatting with all of them and inviting them to come to town. She remembers Joel by contrast: nervous and suspicious. Taciturn. He'd been hanging back and casing the place, clearly feeling some unease that turned out to be well-founded. She remembers thinking he looked dangerous, even before she found out who he was.

Maria steps up beside her. Mel carefully schools her face, wiping it of emotion. Maria seems to do the same. "When Joel came back into his life, I worried at first that he'd corrupt him. Instead, it seemed like it was the other way around. At least for a while." She touches Joel's hand. "You really think he's gonna wake up some day?"

Mel looks away. "I don't know. There's no _way_ to know."

Tommy thuds down the stairs, wrapped in a few extra layers to ward of the day's chill. He pauses by the door. "You sure he's okay?"

"Yeah," Mel says, "There's been no change in any of his vitals. Everything's stable."

Tommy grunts. "We'll be home around dinner time. You run into any problems, grab one of the Bennetts from across the street and send word to Maria."

"The Bennetts. Got it. May . . ." She catches herself and shakes her head. "Be safe out there."

Tommy turns and walks out the door without another word.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Joel opens his eyes. For a moment, everything's just a white blur. He blinks a few times, feeling sand grind in his eye sockets. Everything stays a bit hazy at the edges, but the dark blob above his head resolves into a ceiling fan. He stares up at it, more curious than anything else. He's never spent much time wondering what would happen to him . . . after. Years back, he used to entertain the delusion that Sarah might be there. He left that notion behind - along with a piece of his soul - the first time he dumped another man's body in a shallow ditch and drove away in the dead guy's car. People like him don't end up in heaven, but this doesn't look like the other place either.

Pain hits, sudden and blinding, forcing a croaking groan past his dry lips. Yeah, maybe this is the hot place. Something about it seems familiar, though, if pain can be called familiar. A pounding throb in his head. Spikes of agony running up his leg. A dull ache in his arm. He abruptly remembers Abby - the shotgun, the tourniquet, the golf club, all of it. He swallows hard and tries to lift his arm. It's . . . stuck. Paralyzed or just restrained, he's not sure. He turns his head - his neck, at least, works - and tries again to blink the blurriness away. He's . . . in a bed. There's sheets folded over him, a pillow under his head, and another under his hips. His left arm is encased in plaster. A cast. There's an IV sticking out of his hand, connected to a fluid drip. He twitches his fingers a few times. They're moving okay.

Despite the pain, he takes a minute to marvel. Back in that dark basement at the Baldwin place, the possibility of _survival_ seemed as distant as heaven. There were . . . twelve of them? Four of them? It's important to _know_. He closes his eyes and remembers their faces. Counts them. Eight. Eight attackers, looking for him specifically, and they found him with . . .

Shit. Tommy.

He opens his eyes and tries to scan the room, but just turning his head makes him dizzy and nauseous and it's all blurring out again. He can lift his right arm, but it's jerky and spastic. Looks more like the kind of twitching and flailing you'd see in an old zombie movie. His breath comes a little faster. Tommy's okay. He's got to be. He was the only friendly face around for miles, so he's got to be the one who got them both out, somehow. Just Tommy against eight hunters. Joel's never gonna live it down.

He stares at the wall, trying to focus. That basement is clear in his head - almost _too_ clear - but everything before it is a jumbled blur. He sets that aside for a moment and tries to concentrate on his surroundings. The walls are white and lined with bookshelves. The room is unfamiliar, but comes with a twinge of déjà vu, like it _should_ be familiar. Like he's been here in a dream or some half-forgotten childhood memory. The door is closed. He's alone. He tries to speak - to call out - but the words seem locked in his throat. Like they get lost somewhere between the intention in his head and the act of forming them. He struggles for a moment, then settles for a wordless groan.

The door opens. "Joel?"

His eyes lock on the newcomer's face, then flick away, spooked. It's a woman. Dark hair cropped short. Pale skin accentuating the dark shadows under her eyes. A small frame with slim hands. He remembers those hands pulling with unexpected strength, tugging the tourniquet tight. Shit. _Shit._ It's not over. He hasn't _survived_ , they're just not done with him yet.

He dimly wonders just what is broken in Abby to make her go to this much effort - to drag it out for _this long_. She's so _young_. A girl that age shouldn't want to dole out this much pain.

The woman - the medic - approaches the bed and bends over him. He keeps looking away - not moving, not trying to speak. He doesn't want to give her the satisfaction of a response. She takes his head carefully in her hands and turns it. One finger traps his eyelid as she flashes a penlight in first one eye, then the other. "Can you hear me? Follow the light if you understand me."

 _Look for the light_. He hides a snort and lets his eyes dart, looking anywhere but at her little penlight. After a minute, she gives up and sits on a stool on his right side. "Joel, can you hear me? I know this must be confusing, but you need to wake up now." Her voice is rote. Emotionless. She takes his hand in hers and he forces himself to keep still. "Can you squeeze my hand? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

He's not playing that game. He keeps his hand limp. She squeezes once, as if to demonstrate how it's done, then sighs. "Okay. That's okay. Tell me when you can feel this. Squeeze back, or say something, whatever you can do, okay?"

She squeezes again, first firmly, then harder, punishingly hard. The bones in his hand creak and fresh pain flashes up his good arm. He sets his jaw and stares stubbornly into the corner where wall meets ceiling. He keeps his face flat and holds back the groan that tries to escape. He's not going to give her the _satisfaction_.

She lets go and sits back, defeated. "Please don't let it be locked-in syndrome," she mutters to herself. She takes his head between her hands again. He wonders if she can feel the steady throb running through it. "Joel." She leans close, trying to force him to meet her gaze. "I know you're scared, but it's gonna be okay. You've been injured, but you're getting better. My name's Mel. I'm trying to help you."

Some _help_.

"Joel, if you can understand me, blink twice, okay?"

He drops his gaze and stares, unblinking, until his eyes water. She sighs and releases him. "Okay. No response to pain, no response to commands. Vegetative state. That's still better than a coma."

She's not talking _to_ him anymore. She thinks he's a vegetable. Good. There's no reason to beat up on a vegetable. She stands and gathers a few things from the shelves. While her back is turned, Joel tests the function in his fingers. The ones on the left move pretty normally, though he's hindered by the cast wrapping around his palm. On the right, he can't do much more than twitch them. He's not sure he could've squeezed her hand even if he wanted to.

The woman - Mel - turns back to him with an eyedropper and a tube of chapstick in her hands. She rubs the balm carefully over his lips, then lifts his lids again to drop a bit of saline in each of his eyes. Her manner is efficient but not brusque. Joel suddenly wonders how long he's been like this. There's a familiarity to her movements - to her touch - that makes his hair stand on end. She pulls back the sheet that covers him and Joel realizes that he's wearing a hospital gown, though this is clearly not a hospital. His right leg is wrapped in bulky bandages. Honestly, Joel's mostly surprised that it's still there. Mel props a pillow between his knees, takes him by the shoulder and hip, and rolls him onto his side, facing away from her. The movement jars his leg and sends jolts of pain like hot pokers up his thigh. Joel squeezes his eyes shut and limits his response to a grunt. Mel pauses, but when he doesn't respond further, she shrugs it off and flips his gown open.

The woman runs her hands methodically over the bare skin of his back. Her fingers pause to probe at his shoulder blades, the base of his neck, his tailbone, and both hips. It's not painful - just alarming and intrusive, especially when she checks the . . . diaper. Yeah, he's wearing a fucking diaper. It's dry, fortunately.

He opens his eyes to take his mind off of what she's doing and tries to scan the room. He can see blue skies through the windows, but not much else. He's pretty sure he's in a house. There's a painting of wild horses on the side wall, plus a shelf with a few knick knacks. Something about the painting niggles at his memory, but he can't quite place it. Probably one of those generic prints that ends up everywhere.

He focuses in on the side table a couple feet away and his breath suddenly catches in his throat. His first thought is that this has to be some kind of a sick joke. There are _pictures_ on the side table, and they're _his_ pictures. Tommy, that time he caught a two foot bass in Lake Travis and insisted on memorializing the occasion. Ellie, the day she qualified for patrol duty and was assigned Shimmer. Even Sarah, her trophy lofted high, still triumphant all these decades later.

Why would these thing be here? There's no _reason_ for it, besides fucking with him. To get these particular pictures here, Abby's people would've had to have raided Jackson. Who knows how many people they might've hurt, and for _what?_

He abandons the charade and opens his mouth to voice his outrage, but, like before, he can't get the words out. It's like there's a block at the back of his tongue. He tries a few times, gives up, and settles for a grunt and a groan. Mel doesn't even respond, and that pisses him off more than almost anything else. He lashes out - or tries to. His right arm jerks and flails in her general direction. She catches his wrist and pushes it down. "Might have to figure out some kind of restraints," she says, "They'll love that."

Joel takes a breath and struggles to get a grip. They've put a lot of work into fixing him up. There has to be a point to these mind games. Maybe it's a prelude to an interrogation? Nothing else makes much sense. There's a good chance they're Fireflies, and that means they'll be looking for Ellie. _That's_ why they've got her picture. He's gotta keep it together. He has to keep up the act for as long as he can. If they realize he's awake, they'll start in on him again, and this time it might not be just for payback. He forces his face to go slack but realizes, with a combination of shame and horror, that there are tears dripping from his eyes.

Mel props pillows under his hip and shoulder and eases him back to lie half on his side. She seems startled when she sees his face, but all she does is take a handkerchief and wipe his cheeks clean. She pauses for long moments, staring down at him. Her face is conflicted. After a moment, though, it hardens and she looks away. She puts a hand on his shoulder, not roughly or cruelly.

"May your survival be long, asshole."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Tommy paces the floorboards, his brow furrowed, his expression dark. "I knew we shouldn't have gone on that fucking patrol."

Mel leans forward and laces her fingers together. "Nothing would've been different if you were here. This isn't real consciousness, even if it looks like it. He's just opening his eyes. That's a reflex."

Ellie's face is still pink from the wind. She's sitting on the couch across from Mel, twisting her hands. "We still should've been here." Behind her, Dina silently puts a hand on her shoulder.

Mel looks down and tries to compose her thoughts. "The thing to remember is that this is a _good thing_. It might look alarming, but it's a sign of improvement. His brain is starting to heal itself."

Tommy glares. "But, you just said it might be permanent!"

" _Might_ be. Or, it might not. He could be better tomorrow or a month from now. There's no timeline."

"Or he might never get better."

She nods.

Ellie presses her lips together. "What do we do then? If he doesn't get better."

Mel swallows. "There's no easy answer to that."

Ellie looks at Tommy, who sighs and rubs his forehead. "There was . . . this woman. Years before the outbreak. I didn't know her but she was all over the news. She was in one of those. 'Persistent vegetative state,' they called it."

Mel shakes her head. "We're not there yet. It's not a persistent vegetative state unless there's no improvement over a year."

They both rock back a little. They've been . . . coping. They've both learned a lot and adjusted their expectations, but it's clear that neither of them are prepared to think about a whole year of this.

Tommy shakes his head. "Point is, they gave up. She wasn't getting better. So, they removed her feeding tube and just let her waste away."

Ellie's face pales. "We're not doing that to Joel." Mel's not sure if she means they're not giving up or that they wouldn't let him . . . go like that if it came down to it. The girl stands and steps away from Dina. "Anyway, it's stupid to be talking like this. He's improving. I'm gonna go see him."

Mel stands but she knows better than to get between Ellie and the hallway. "Just . . . be prepared, okay? He was pretty quiet this afternoon, but I've seen people in this condition get agitated. They can kick, smile, cry, even scream without knowing what they're doing."

Ellie's jaw tightens, but she just nods.

Dina takes her girlfriend's hand. "Want me to come with you?"

Ellie looks at her, then down at the ground. "Maybe not yet?" She looks back up through her eyelashes, always nervous about giving her even the appearance of rejection.

Dina nods. "Okay."

Ellie crosses the hallway to the living room. Mel turns to look out the window, giving her space. Still, Ellie's voice drifts back to them.

"Joel?"

There's a long pause, then a slurred groan that she probably takes as an answer.

"Joel! Oh god, Tommy, get in here!"

The younger Miller turns and all but runs across the hallway. Mel shakes her head, but gives them a minute. She's given them all the information she can, but family members often don't believe until they have a little time to work it out for themselves. Manny was the same way after his dad's stroke. Dina looks at her in question and Mel shakes her head again. "I'll check on things in a minute. You go. She needs you more than me, right now."

Mel paces the floor in her wake. She can't really make out what they're saying anymore - not with their voices overlapping like this. Everything's going to get more complicated, now. Joel will have to be watched more closely to make sure he doesn't damage his splint or pull out his lines. They'll need to improvise some sort of railing system for the bed, to keep him from falling out and hurting himself. Hell, he could smother himself just by rolling over. And that's without touching the emotional toll it'll take on the family to see him like this.

Her stethoscope is sitting on the table. She picks it up, puts it around her neck, and turns wearily toward the living room. The door is open, but she can't see Joel past the other three clustered around him.

She steps into the room, gets her first good look, and stops short. Ellie is bending over him with his face between her hands, pressing their foreheads together. And Joel . . . he's lifting his head, leaning into her. His left arm is made awkward by the cast, but he's managed to raise it enough to put a hand behind her back in an approximation of an embrace. He's awake. He knows her.

Tommy stands hunched on Joel's other side, holding his hand, but when he feels Mel's approach, he turns and glares. "Well? Were you bullshitting us, or are you just a fucking idiot?"

Mel has to close her mouth before she catches a fly with it. She shakes her head. "I . . . I did an exam not even half an hour ago. There was no awareness, no response to commands, nothing." She grabs her stethoscope and takes a cautious step toward the bed. "If I can just repeat the neuro check . . ."

Joel suddenly lets out a sputtering groan. Almost a growl. Ellie pulls back and he lifts his head a little further and stares right at Mel. His face . . . his expression makes Tommy's scowl look positively friendly by comparison. She dimly notices that he's got no sign of facial paralysis. It takes pretty good motor control to twist a human face into that kind of snarl. His eyes are hard - as hard as they were when he told Abby to get on with it and as angry as they were when he realized that she wouldn't.

"Joel?" she says hesitantly, "Were you awake earlier? My name is Mel. Do you remember?"

His breath comes short and sharp. His right arm is spastic and jerky, but he yanks it up towards his chest, a defensive posture. With a chill, she remembers pushing his arm down and muttering to herself about the need to restrain him. He nods once.

Mel gathers herself. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were awake. You must've been confused." She takes another careful step, her stethoscope held out like a peace offering. "I want to help you, if I can."

For a moment, he looks like a cornered animal. He lets out a croaking yell that's just a few decibels short of a scream. Ellie puts a protective hand on his shoulder, but he swings his left arm out and shoves her back away from Mel. Away from danger.

Realization hits Mel all at once, icy and inescapable. For a moment, she can't speak either. Joel holds her gaze for what feels like a long time. His left hand crosses his body and comes to rest just above his right knee. Where the tourniquet sat. His thumb rubs, deliberately.

She takes a deep breath. Then another. "Oh," she says quietly. She takes a step back. "I . . . I should go."

She doesn't wait for a response. She turns and staggers out the door. The hallway is a blur. She doesn't stop until she's out on the porch with the mountain air stinging her face. She leans on the railing, focusing on the feel of worn wood under her hands. It shouldn't have been possible - _no one_ remembers the initial brain trauma. Sure, some recover the memory weeks or months later, but they don't just wake up like Sleeping Beauty. He _shouldn't_ have _remembered._

The door behind her opens, then closes, softly. Dina steps up beside her and leans against the railing. "You wanna tell me what that was about?"

Mel stares at her hands. " _Prinum, non nocere_."

She arches an eyebrow. "Gesundheit." She pauses. "You wanna expand on that, or . . . ?"

Mel shakes her head. "Something my mentor used to say. Back in Salt Lake City." She stares out into the dark, lit softly by street lights. "He . . . struggled, sometimes. With our work. With what it meant. We were doing vaccine trials. We lost a lot of subjects. Patients. We lost patients. I remember just after we left Colorado, he got drunk one night, all by himself. I found him and asked what was wrong, and that was all he'd say. _Prinum non nocere. Prinum non nocere._ Over and over again."

"Which, for those of us who didn't take Greek in our post-apocalypse education, means . . . ?"

Mel smiles a little. "I didn't know either. Had to look it up. It's Latin for 'do no harm.' Apparently, they used to make doctors swear that, before they were allowed to practice. That they'd do _no harm_." She snorts. "I wondered just how crazy you had to be, to make an oath like that."

Dina looks down, then back up at her. "Different time, I guess."

"I guess. He believed in it, though. I could tell." Mel turns around and leans back against the railing. "Joel murdered him. In cold blood. And, I'm sure he didn't go to bed that night thinking that he should've _done no harm_. But, still." She pauses. She half expects Dina to lash out at her, but the woman is silent. "He remembers me. Joel. He knows I was part of the group that attacked him. That's why he was so scared. That's why he wouldn't respond when I asked him questions. He must've thought we still had him."

Dina turns. "Shit."

"Yeah." Mel props her elbows against the railing. There's nothing more to say.

"You said that was impossible."

"I said it was very unlikely. There's a difference." She closes her eyes. "How is he?"

"Aware. He seems to understand what's said to him. He can nod or shake his head. He can't talk, though. He keeps trying, but he just can't get the words out."

Mel nods. "It's called aphasia. It happens when someone takes a hit to the left side of the head. It gets better, over time."

"What are you going to do?"

Mel snorts. "I'm positive that I'm not gonna get to decide that."

Dina looks away. "I should get back. I'll explain things, as best I can."

"Yeah." Mel turns back towards the street. "Thanks."

Once she's alone again, Mel stares out into the dark, unseeing. She remembers the blood-spattered hallway in Salt Lake City. She remembers the fear and horror in Joel's eyes when she pulled the tourniquet tight.

_Prinum non nocere._

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

The morning light is streaming through the window, bringing out the red undertones in Ellie's hair. Joel stares, just drinking her in. He remembers the basement - how long it went on and how desperate he was to see her just one more time. He made himself be okay with losing her - he had to. He'd have lost all semblance of sanity if he hadn't been able to let go. To keep himself whole, he had to give up all hope of ever seeing her again, so it's strange to have her here, now, talking about her love life as if everything's okay.

"Anyway, she's been great about everything, but it's all moving really fast. She's talking about packing up her apartment and moving in full time. I'm not sure if I'm ready for that."

Joel smiles and squeezes her hand. He can't quite remember if they ever talked about that other girl. Cat. Her name was Cat. It started right around the time she stopped talking to him and he hadn't wanted to admit he was keeping tabs on her.

The door creaks open and they both tense. It's Mel, wearing a tightly controlled expression. Joel's fingers tighten further on Ellie's. They've explained it to him, more or less: how they spared her and a couple of others in exchange for her saving his life. How she's been acting as his live-in doctor, nurse, and nanny ever since. It's not enough to make him okay with her presence.

"What do you want, Mel?" Ellie growls.

The woman grits her teeth. "I haven't done a neuro exam in over twelve hours. Those bandages need to be changed and Joel is overdue for his medications."

"Well, maybe he doesn't want to be poked and prodded just now."

Mel takes a deep breath. She seems to be gathering herself. "Ellie. I'd like to talk to Joel alone, please."

"No fucking way!"

"We have to find a way to work together. You still need me." Her eyes rest on Joel for a moment, then shift back to Ellie. "You all do."

Ellie wants to argue, but Joel can't have her fighting his battles. He squeezes her hand until she looks at him. He knows better than to try to speak - he still can't get out much more than slurred groans. He holds her gaze a moment, nods, and jerks his head towards the door.

She bites the corner of her lip. "You sure?"

He nods.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a little silver bell, like the kind that used to sit on hotel check-in desks. "Borrowed this from Mark down at the pub. Ding once if you want me to come back in, twice if I need to come kick her ass."

Joel snorts and dings the bell once just to show her that he can. She hesitates, nods one more time, then steps out, making sure to bump Mel with her shoulder on her way out the door. Mel doesn't react to the goading. She closes the door softly behind Ellie, turns back to Joel, and leans against the wall, her arms folded. "She's hardly left your side for weeks." She shrugs. "I guess if somebody destroys the world for you, it creates a certain sense of obligation."

Joel's face hardens and he takes a deep breath. He knows the word he wants to say. He takes his lower lip between his teeth and tries to force it out. "Ffff . . . ffffuh . . ."

"Firefly? Yeah, I was. Doesn't matter anymore. The Fireflies are gone." She rotates her jaw slowly. "It is what it is. You're always going to be the person who destroyed my world, and I'm always going to be one of the people who tried to make you pay for it. We're never going to be friends, but we don't need to be. You're my patient now." She pauses. Joel waits. He's at least going to hear her out. "You're on eight different medications. Your leg is a mess. We don't even know how bad the head trauma is yet, and we won't until you let me examine you."

She takes a step towards him. He tightens his face into a glare that keeps her at bay. His left hand hovers over the call bell. She glances down at it, then back up at his face. "Ellie and Tommy and Dina have been working around the clock to keep you alive, but they can't do it on their own. You need care. There's a lot you're not going to be able to do for yourself for a while, and that's not going to be easy for someone like you. You'll have to relearn how to walk, how to talk, how to do a lot of basic things. You need help."

He looks away. She's right. It's not like he can ask Ellie and Tommy to change his fucking diapers. And yet . . . he remembers hot breath on his face and rough hands on his shoulders and Tommy slumping to the ground, bleeding into the tile. _You don't get to rush this._ Mel takes another step towards him and all he can do is glare and shake his head. 

It's enough. She stops in her tracks and holds out her hands. "You've got the power here, Joel. They'll kill me if you ask them to, but think about where that would leave you." She hesitates. "Neither of us can take back what we've done. And frankly, I don't think either of us would if we could. But, we've still got to find a way to work together." She pauses. "Let me help you."

She hates him, still, but at least she has the decency not to hide it. And she's _right_. He'd be a fool to trust her, but for right now, he needs her. He looks down at his hands, then back up at her. He nods.

She steps closer and props a pillow behind his back to help him sit up. The bell of her stethoscope is cold against first his chest, then his back. "Deep breath in . . . good." She lifts his wrist and holds her finger against his pulse for a few seconds that seem much longer. "Okay." She takes his hand. "Can you squeeze my hand?"

He closes his eyes and tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being a monster . . .
> 
> Feedback (including concrit) is very much appreciated!


	6. Synaptic Dysfunction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Joel starting to improve, Mel and Ellie strike up a tenuous friendship. Joel's not so ready to let bygones be bygones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with content warnings for some unpleasant medical scenes and a TRIGGER WARNING for suicidal ideation. Take care of yourself don't read if this might harm you.

Mel approaches the living room and is unsurprised to hear crashes, bangs, and the patter of gunfire from within. She knocks on the door. "Can I come in?"

There's a long pause, then a gravelly voice. "Yeah." Joel's voice is rough and strained, but at least he can get a few words out now. It's been two weeks since he woke up and progress has been slow.

She pushes the door open and nods to Ellie. The girl is curled up in the armchair beside the bed with her feet tucked under her, a bowl of popcorn on her lap, and her eyes fixed on the television. Some kind of action movie is playing. Mel glances at the screen and finds more of the usual: bullets flying, sprays of blood the color of ketchup, a kid spinning through the air with a sword in each hand. She turns back to Joel and holds out the shears in her hand. "I can come back later. Or we can lose the ball and chain now."

Joel shakes his head and beckons with his left hand, his fingers still hampered by the cast. Mel steps close to the bed and Ellie scoots her chair to the side so that she can still see the TV. Like always, Mel starts by checking his vitals, then the circulation in his fingertips. "Any pain? In your arm, I mean?" He shakes his head and she doesn't have any choice but to take him at his word. She slides the heavy scissors carefully in between the cast and the back of his hand and starts to snip. The cast is made from cut-up bed sheets stiffened with plaster scrounged from a looted hardware store. A cast saw would've made this much faster and less annoying, but with time and elbow grease, she's able to hack through it. "Remember, it'll be another month or two before the bone is back to full strength," she tells him while she works, "Light use only until then. Don't use it to push yourself up or we could be back to square one."

He nods, his eyes still on the movie. He has an old baseball in his right hand and is gripping it rhythmically, trying to strengthen his fingers. In a perfect world, Mel would leave the left arm in a cast for another month to be safe, but it's clear that that's not going to work. His right arm is weak and uncoordinated, incapable of any but the simplest tasks. Hand feeding Joel has proven to be at least as frustrating as dealing with the feeding tube, for all involved.

On screen, the gunfight has turned into a car chase. Ellie leans forward in her chair. She hasn't quite forgiven Mel for misdiagnosing Joel when he first woke up, but at least she hasn't been actively hostile. She's defaulted more towards ignoring her, which is its own kind of irritating. She's at Joel's side almost every waking moment, though, and she helps him in ways that Mel can't. As the car crashes off the side of a bridge and drops into a river, Ellie grins and glances at Joel. "Remember this scene? With the scuba tanks?"

Joel snorts and half-smiles. Mel turns to watch the screen for a moment. A muscle-bound man who she assumes is the hero kicks his way out of the sinking car, dragging the kid with the swords. Joel's face tightens in concentration. His lips press together. "C . . . convenient."

"Yeah. Well, I guess it would've been a short movie if they died in the opening sequence."

"Yeah."

Mel doesn't try to add anything to the exchange - that won't do anything but make Joel shut down. His long-term memory is probably a little spotty, but that's hard to evaluate at the moment. His language comprehension seems to be fine, but when it comes to actually forming words, he has some kind of a block. Mel doesn't think that's a physical problem - as best as she can tell, he can move his lips and tongue, swallow, and make meaningless noises without difficulty. It's more likely that the parts of his brain responsible for forming speech were damaged. She can't say for sure, though, because Joel has flatly rejected her rudimentary attempts at speech therapy. He'll nod or shake his head in response to questions, but he doesn't talk to her. In that silence, she can feel his simmering anger, but there's nothing she can do about that.

The last few fibers of cast material finally give under her shears and Mel yanks it apart like a clamshell, wincing as the sharp edges cut into her fingers. The arm beneath is swathed in cotton, which she has to carefully cut through and tug away. Finally, she's able to pull the ruined cast off and inspect the skin beneath. Joel flinches ever so slightly as she lifts his forearm - probably not used to touch after so long in the cast. The arm is thin, and the wasted muscle and sagging skin make him look older than he is. She can feel his eyes on her as she probes along the inside of his forearm and finds the hard lump of the healing fracture callus. She presses on it with her thumb. "Any pain now?" He shakes his head, though his eyes tell a different story. Oh, well. Some discomfort isn't surprising at this stage, and the bone feels stable enough.

She supports his arm under the elbow and wrist and takes a deep breath. Moment of truth. "Can you turn your hand palm-side up?" He slowly twists his arm and stretches out his fingers. She grins. "Good! Radius is intact. Now, let's check range of motion." She carefully bends his wrist, then flexes it back until she meets resistance. "Stop me when it hurts."

Joel snorts and doesn't look at her.

Mel shakes her head and focuses on the task at hand. She supports under Joel's bicep and flexes his elbow until she hits resistance. His arm locks when it's barely past a ninety degree angle, and that gets his attention. He looks at her with alarm in his face. "It's okay," she says quickly, "The muscles tightened up from being in a cast for so long. We just need to stretch them out again." She massages his arm for a few minutes, rubbing her fingers deep into his triceps and the muscles around his elbow. "Can you lift your arm above your head?"

He does it and then, without prompting, rotates his arm from the shoulder like a pitcher warming up. He flexes and extends his elbow a few times, then flexes his fingers as if the broken arm was just a momentary stinger and he's trying to shake it off. "Good. Now, hold your hand out straight. Don't let me push it down." Mel tests the strength in his elbow and wrist and finds it a bit weak but already far stronger than his right arm. "Were you right-handed before?"

He nods, his eyes back on the television screen.

"It might be easier to learn how to write lefty. We can play around with that down the road."

"He can shoot ambidextrous," Ellie puts in.

Mel abruptly remembers seeing the bullet that killed Jerry. It blew right through him and dug a golf ball-sized hole in the wall. "Well. Let's hope he doesn't have to shoot anything for a while."

She can almost feel the temperature in the room drop a few degrees, but they all collectively decide to ignore it. Joel doesn't look at Mel or speak to her, but he obeys her commands as she walks him through a series of exercises for both arms and his left leg. She finishes by stretching and flexing his right ankle. From the grimaces he tries to hide, that part's not entirely comfortable, but he makes no move to stop her. 

She does a few more reps, then turns to grab a jar off the bookshelf. Tommy's cobbled together a crude rolling table that fits over the bed. She swings it into place, opens the jar, and dumps two dozen coins onto the table. "Try it with your left hand." He nods, picks up a penny, and drops it into the jar, all with much less fumbling than when he'd tried with his right hand last week. He grabs a nickel next, then a quarter. 

She leaves him to it - the fine motor practice is good for him. She watches the movie for a moment. It's a quiet scene - just the muscley protagonist having intense conversations with a variety of men wearing dark suits and brandishing fake accents. "How come they're never out of breath for these scenes?" Ellie says, "I mean, thirty seconds ago, Curtis was slashing his way through like fifty armed goons, and he's not even gonna stop and pant for a second?" 

Joel gives a noncommittal grunt. The next coin slips out of his hand and plinks to the floor. Mel bends down to retrieve it. It's a quarter. She flips it and studies the back. Hawai'i. She's pretty sure Abby hasn't found this one yet. She pushes aside the momentary pang and hands it back to him. "Try with both hands now. Pick up with your left, drop it into the jar with your right." He's slower and more awkward this way, but he manages and doesn't complain. 

On screen, another fight has broken out, and this time Curtis has a machete. He yanks it through some bad guy's guts and Ellie makes a face. "Y'know, they never mention how bad it smells when you do that." Joel glances at her, then back down at what he's doing. His hands are starting to tremble, but he picks up the last coin, passes it to his bad hand, and drops it in the jar. Before he can decide to start over and thus over-work himself, Mel grabs the jar, screws the lid on, and returns it to the shelf.

"Good. We'll work on this more tomorrow. For now, it's time for your pain meds." She steps around the bed and reaches for the pill organizer on the table, but Joel waves her off and grabs it with his left hand. He wants to do it. His right hand shakes, but after a bit of fumbling, he manages to flip up the cap on the "Thursday" medications. That's three big tests he's passed: remembering what day of the week it is, reading said day on the pill organizer, and having the dexterity to get it open. All a big improvement over where he started from two weeks ago. He upends the plastic organizer and spills a dozen tablets and capsules onto the table.

Faced with an array of medications of different shapes and colors, he hesitates and looks at Mel. "It's time for the Tramadol," she prompts. He looks down at the pills then back up at her, and she really can't fault him for that; plenty of people with perfectly healthy brains can't keep that many medications straight. "The little round white ones." He nods and sorts out a half dozen white tablets. "Three of them." Counting is another test. He hesitates a moment, but picks out the correct number of pills and sets them aside. He's feeling confident, now, and that makes him sloppy. He cups his left hand at the edge of the table and tries to sweep the extra pills into it with his right but misjudges the angle. The pills scatter across the table and half of them plink to the floor. Joel growls in frustration, but he's not half as irritable as he was yesterday. This is still a good day.

"I'll get it," Ellie says before Mel can bend down to clean up. She kneels, scoops up the scattered pills, brushes them off, and returns them to the pill case. 

Joel's hands are shaking, but he manages to pick up the three remaining tablets and pop them in his mouth. Ellie holds a glass of water to his face and he takes a sip from the straw. His face tightens. "Th . . . thank you . . ." he pauses, swallows, and grits his teeth, " . . . Sarah."

Ellie's back stiffens. Mel's pretty sure it takes Joel a minute to realize he's made a mistake. He reaches for Ellie's hand, but she steps back. "Have . . . have you been thinking I'm her this whole time?" Joel tries to reply, but he's flustered now and can't get out more than a few grunts and garbled vowel sounds. Ellie seems spooked. There's hurt written across her face, too. Before Joel can pull himself together, she turns and flees the room.

Mel sighs, picks up the remote, and pauses the movie. "She'll calm down," she tells Joel, "She's just freaked out."

His brow is furrowed and both his hands are clenched into fists. After a moment, he lifts his left arm and punches down hard into the mattress. Mel quickly puts a hand over his wrist. "Take it easy. You're not helping anyone if you reinjure yourself." He yanks his arm away but doesn't lash out again. Beneath the shields of hostility, there's something vulnerable in his expression. Mel drags a chair around and sits down, facing him. "She's scared for you. All those weeks you were asleep, she would've done anything just to talk to you again." She pauses. Joel's scowling into the wall. "Was that the first time you tried to say her name?" 

He glances at her, then away. He nods shortly.

"I thought so. She thinks you have her confused with someone else, but you don't, do you? You just swapped the names."

He shrugs.

"I can help you, but only if you work with me."

His jaw tightens. His face hardens. "Fuck you."

Relearning a language is much like learning a new one: profanity comes the quickest and the easiest. Mel doesn't let herself be deterred. "She needs to hear your voice. She needs to at least hear her own name."

Pain flashes across his face, and Mel's not sure how much is physical and how much psychological. She's uncomfortably reminded of interrogating Scars and watching for the moment when it gets to be too much - when they give in and start to cooperate. She has to firmly remind herself that she's trying to help Joel; it's not her fault he's being an ass about it. Finally, he looks down at his lap, sighs, and nods once.

Mel waits until he looks at her. She keeps her expression neutral. "Her name is Ellie. Can you repeat it? Ellie."

He swallows. His mouth opens, then closes. "Eh . . ." He stops. He doesn't want to look weak. It's a far cry from the relentless way he's attacked physical therapy for his arm, but brain injuries are different. It probably feels like a hit to his _identity_ rather than just his ability.

"You can try singing it. _'Happy Birthday, dear Ellie . . .'_ "

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

"It might feel silly, but it helps."

He scowls and doesn't even try to respond. 

Mel takes a deep breath and forces herself to be patient. "Okay. Let's break it down phonetically, then. Work on the sounds. 'Eh, eh, eh.'"

He takes a quick breath and opens his mouth but can't get anything out.

"Don't think of it as words, think of it as sounds. 'Eh, eh, eh.'"

He grimaces, but tries. "Ehhrm . . . eh. Eh eh."

"Good. Now, "luh, luh, luh."

" . . . uh . . ."

"Almost. Touch the tip of your tongue to the roof of your mouth and then just let it roll. 'Luh, luh, luh."

" . . . Luh . . . luh, luh."

"Now 'eee, eee, eee.'"

" . . . eh . . ."

"Move your lips like you're smiling and tighten the back of your throat. 'Eeeee.'"

" . . . eh . . . eeeeeeee . . ."

"Good. Let's put it together. Remember, it's just sounds. 'Eh eh, luh luh, eee eee.'"

"Eh . . . eh eh . . . luh luh . . . eeee."

It takes him a few minutes and quite a few repetitions before he can string the phonemes together without pauses. Mel forces herself to be patient, because if this is frustrating for her, it's got to be ten times worse for Joel. "Now just roll them together. Eh-lee. Eh-lee."

"Eh . . . lee. Eh-lee."

"Ellie."

"Ellie." He seems startled when the name finally comes out. He closes his eyes and relief washes across his face. "Ellie," he repeats softly, "Ellie."

It's a start, but he doesn't have it quite coded into his brain yet. He'll need some more repetition. Mel picks up the photo of the two of them off the bedside stand. "What's her name?"

"Ellie."

Good. Now, to see if he can do it after a momentary distraction. Mel studies the picture for a moment. "I recognize that horse. It's the one she was riding when she found you at the Baldwin place. Was this taken last year?"

He shakes his head.

"Two years ago?"

He nods.

"And her name is . . ."

"Ellie."

"Good." Mel puts the photo down and stares at the other one - the older photo of the little girl with the trophy. She's never asked about that. She never had to; the story it tells is clear enough. "It's important to practice. I want you to try to say her name every time you see her. Don't get discouraged if you make a mistake or have a setback. That comes with the territory."

He nods. He's trembling with weariness, plus the pain medications are starting to kick. Mel turns off the TV and closes the curtains. "You should try to rest, now. Your brain can only take so much at once." He nods and looks away.

Mel collects her stethoscope and leaves. It's a milestone. She tries not to think about just how many miles there still are to go.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

With her left hand, Mel tucks into a heaping bowl of oatmeal. The morning sickness has finally faded and been replaced by nearly insatiable hunger. No one's said anything about it. If Maria or Ellie or Tommy noticed that she's gained a few pounds, they probably shrugged it off as a consequence of having three square after the leaner rations on the road. With her right hand, she sketches a few lines in her spiral notebook, dividing the page into rough blocks, each about three inches by four. At the bottom of each box, she adds a word in careful block lettering. _Apple. Pear. Berries. Sandwich._ Once she has a full page of about a dozen common snack foods, she goes back to the first block and starts the more frustrating process of trying to draw an apple.

Ellie enters the kitchen, moving cautiously as she always does, and pours herself a glass of milk from the fridge. She comes up behind Mel and glances over her shoulder. "Planning on a career change? To kindergarten teacher?"

Mel takes another bite of oatmeal and washes it down with a swig of juice. "It's called a communication board. It's like a . . . stepping stone for Joel, until he can tell us what he needs. This at least lets him show us. And the pictures should help the words connect."

Ellie sits down across from her, studies her lopsided impression of an apple, and raises an eyebrow. "How you figure?"

Mel smiles tightly and shrugs. "Art's not really one of my talents."

"I'll say." Ellie tugs the note pad out of her hands and picks up a pencil. "You eat."

While Mel focuses on her oatmeal, Ellie erases her wobbly lines and starts to sketch. Her art skills, like her singing, seems self-taught. All the same, she's got talent. Her expression is intent and focused as she delicately shades in the fruit and adds a shadow. 

She works in silence for a while. Mel tries not to let that bother her. Ellie's not much of a talker. Eventually, though, the sound of her clinking spoon and Ellie's scratching pencil becomes oppressive. "Have you talked to Joel yet this morning?" she asks.

Ellie's lip twists. "Yeah."

"Did he get your name right?"

She doesn't look up, but her pencil pauses for a moment. "Yeah. Took him a couple tries."

"He's not confused, you know. He knows who you are."

Ellie's shoulder tightens. "It is what it is."

"So," Mel says cautiously, "Sarah."

Ellie glances up at her, then quickly back down.

"She was his biological daughter?"

Ellie doesn't react to her careful phrasing. "Yeah."

"When did she die?"

Ellie's jaw tightens. "Decades ago. The beginning of the outbreak."

"So, you never knew her."

"Obviously."

Mel picks up a new notepad and starts laying out a board for basic responses. _Yes. No. I don't know. Thank you._ Ellie puts the finishing touches on the food board, takes the new one from Mel, and starts to sketch a nodding head. "The brain works around categories," Mel says, "Similar words are stored close together, like a library. When the wires get crossed, it tries to substitute a similar word for the one that's missing. _Apple_ for _pear_. _Chair_ for _couch._ A name for a similar name. That's all it was. Crossed wires."

Ellie keeps her eyes on the paper and her thoughts hidden. "How do you know so much about this stuff? I mean, I can't imagine head trauma was high on the Fireflies list of priorities."

Mel scoops up a bit more oatmeal and a dried blueberry. "Seattle was a war zone. _Is_ a war zone. Once I joined the WLF, I got plenty of experience in treating trauma patients."

"Infected don't really knock people's brains in, though."

Mel shrugs. "People do. There was this cult. Bunch of religious fanatics. They were constantly ambushing us, trying to chip away at our territory."

Ellie's brow furrows. "Why?"

"Hell if I know. They had some kind of delusion where the infected were a punishment from God. And I guess God was supposed to show mercy if they could just convert or kill everyone in the world."

"Okay. But, you. Why'd _you_ volunteer to go to war with a bunch of crazies? I mean, if they want to be kings of the shit-heap, why not just let them have it and find somewhere else to settle?"

Mel's back stiffens. "There's a lot of good people in Seattle."

Ellie has a way of making silence sound like skepticism.

The bowl is empty. Mel clangs her spoon down harder than necessary. "We did what we had to do to get by. After Salt Lake, not everybody had some perfect little gated community to go back to. Out there, we had to fight."

It's just resentment coming out - just petty jealousy for Ellie's idyllic little life in her perfect little town. Mel feels small even as the words are coming out of her mouth. They hit harder than she intended, though. From Ellie's face, Mel can see that she's poked a wound - a raw one. She doesn't hit back. For long moments, she's quiet. "And Abby?" she asks finally, "Is that why she's so . . ."

"Brutal?" Mel closes her eyes, remembering a teenager who used to wax poetic about Hemingway and get excited about old coins found in the mud. "I guess. She was just a kid when we left Salt Lake City. The shit we've been through since then . . . it changes a person. It changed all of us. Eventually, you can get to a point where you don't even recognize yourself." She abruptly remembers the creak of leather as the tourniquet tightened. Her hands curl into fists. God, Jerry wouldn't recognize her. He wouldn't recognize either of them, so it's not just _herself_ that Mel's failed.

Ellie is studying her, still keeping her thoughts hidden behind a mask. "Do you think that part would be different? If there was a cure, I mean. If we didn't have to deal with Infected anymore, would people just . . . stop being total shits to each other?"

Mel sighs and shakes her head. "I don't know. Maybe. Probably not."

"Maybe, though." 

There's nothing to say to that. Mel sips her juice and watches Ellie work. She's squeezing an extra box at the bottom of the "basic responses" board. She carefully sketches a hand, with one finger raised in salute. The words below it, of course, are _Fuck you_. When she sees Mel looking, she smirks and shrugs. "Gotta give him the full range of dialogue options, right?"

Mel smiles. "I don't think he actually needs help with that one."

Ellie smiles back and the truce is maintained for another day.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Joel knows it's time for the bandage change when he sees Tommy. He nods to his brother, but Tommy's not looking at his face. "Let's get this over with," he growls. Ellie's face is similarly grim, but she tries to smile at Joel. He sighs and looks away.

Mel is laying out what she needs: heaps of cotton strips, gauze pads that are scrupulously clean but stained brown from too many uses, tape, a basin, towels, several pitchers of boiled water. She lifts a glass syringe and draws up a white fluid that Joel vaguely recognizes as a sedative. "Okay, Joel," she says in what he knows as her 'bedside manner voice,' "You'll probably lose a little time here. Don't worry about it. Amnesia is a normal side effect of the medication."

Joel hesitates, then shakes his head. She's reaching for the IV in his right hand, but he pushes her hand away. She pauses. "Come on. You need the bandage change."

He knows he can't trust his voice to convey what needs to be said. He nods, then touches the syringe and shakes his head.

"You don't want the sedative?"

He nods.

"Bad idea. Your leg is better than it was, but this is still not going to be pleasant."

He shrugs. Better just to deal with the pain than the helpless, disorienting sensation of losing time.

Mel hesitates. She looks from him to Tommy, who sighs and nods. "Okay," she says finally, "Your funeral."

They tug the covers down and push the stupid hospital gown up until it barely conceals his modesty. Tommy still won't look at Joel, but he helps Mel position the leg out to the side and grips Joel's ankle as the medic starts to unwind the bandages. Ellie squeezes his hand. "This part's kind of gory." Joel just nods. Any movement of his leg sends little ripples of pain up his thigh, making his lower back clench. He struggles to keep the discomfort from his face.

The bandage smells rank, and the smell gets stronger the more layers Mel unwinds. There's a sickly-looking green-white fluid stuck to the inner layers. Joel grunts. Something doesn't seem right there. He parts his lips and tries to focus. Fortunately, the word he wants is one that's pretty well hardwired into his brain by this point. "In . . . infected?"

Mel looks up at him, startled. "Not anymore, I don't think. These are just normal wound secretions from the granulation tissue. The discharge looked way worse when it was infected."

He nods, though he didn't recognize a couple of those words. Hard to say whether that's from the brain damage or just her doctor-speak.

The last layer of cotton tugs at his skin as it's pulled away, and Joel hides a flinch. All that's left is a thick gauze pad resting over his knee - or, at least, where his knee _used_ to be. It's stuck to him. Mel sponges some water over the gauze to soften it. She and Tommy exchange a look and then she turns to Joel. "Better brace yourself." Ellie's hand tightens in his.

Mel yanks the gauze up and off in one hard jerk. It feels like his skin's being ripped off, not just the bandage. Joel thought he was prepared, but a scream forces its way past his clenched teeth, tearing at his throat for just a moment before he can cut it off. In the aftermath, he pants for breath and watches tiny trickles of blood make their way down his leg. 

He looks around at the rest of them and his stomach drops. He'd curse if it didn't take so much damn energy. Tommy is swaying on his feet. Ellie's face is white and she's clenching his hand so hard it's almost painful. And no wonder; Joel's supposed to be the strong one - the one that takes care of _them_ , not the other way around. Even Mel looks concerned. "You should really let me give you something."

He shakes his head, though the back of his skull is starting to pound.

Ellie bites her lip. "Joel . . ."

He shakes his head again. No. He can handle this. He clumsily lays his free hand on top of hers and tries to tell her with his eyes that he's sorry for the outburst - that it ain't gonna happen again. She swallows and nods.

Mel has picked up a pitcher and is pouring a slow stream of water over his leg. It stings, but it's not more than he can take. After a moment, Joel picks his head up and studies his leg. It's . . . not as bad as he expected. Yeah, the muscle has wasted and the skin sagged until it looks like a deformed chicken leg, but he can see the outline of his kneecap, which is more than he expected. The wound is just below it and to the side - a shallow pink crater of flesh that reminds him of the special effects from some alien movie. Mel sees him looking and her lip twists. "You got lucky," she says flatly, "She was aiming for your knee. And Abby doesn't often miss."

He snorts. _Lucky_ , huh?

Neither Ellie nor Tommy seems to see the humor. Ellie glares at Mel. "How about we don't talk about _her_ , okay?"

Mel drops her gaze. "Point is, it could've been a lot worse. Part of the tibia is intact. The shot probably tore up some ligaments, but the skin and muscle took the brunt of it. It's healing well, considering the circumstances."

"Why's it still gaping open, then?" Tommy snaps.

She shrugs. "Skin doesn't really grow back. If we can find some halfway decent surgical instruments, I can try to close it with a skin flap, but the wound bed needs at least another week or two."

The pounding in Joel's head is getting worse. He squints and blinks against lights that suddenly seem too bright. Sunlight streaming through the windows, the light bulbs in the ceiling fan, a table lamp with no shade positioned close to his leg so Mel can see what she's doing. It's all starting to become too much. Tommy's and Mel's voices clang against the inside of his skull and Ellie's hand feels too hot in his. His stomach is starting to roil.

"Didn't you say that like a week ago?" Ellie says.

"The granulation tissue is filling in slower than I expected. That's the pink stuff. We have to make sure it completely covers the muscle and bone before surgery. Otherwise, I'd just be trapping infection inside."

Joel closes his eyes and tries to tune out the words, but tuning voices out seems to be one of the many things his brain is no longer capable of. He can barely think over the throbbing in his head. A twenty-five-year-old memory suddenly strikes him - Sarah, tired and sore after a long afternoon of practicing headers. _"My head is killing me!"_

_Killing me._ There's no reason for that particular memory to come up, but once it does, it won't stop ricocheting around his brain. _Killing me._

The sharp smell of disinfectant adds to the cacophony. Joel opens his eyes and sees Mel adding iodine to a pitcher of water. "This is the worst part," she tells him.

He clenches his jaw and holds his breath, determined not to scream again. The iodine feels like acid when it hits the wound. Joel's leg jerks involuntarily. Tommy holds it still, looking vaguely green. A muffled groan forces its way past Joel's teeth. The churning in his stomach is getting worse. The sun through the windows feels like a strobe light. He realizes what's happening about a second before the point of no return and grabs for the little plastic basin on the table behind Ellie. It takes her a moment to realize what he needs, then another moment to get it, and then it's too late. He gets most of the vomit into the emesis basin, but some of it splashes onto her hands and some onto his gown.

In the aftermath, he pants for breath. He can't meet her gaze. Ellie pulls back and wipes her hand on her jeans. "It's okay. No big deal."

Bullshit.

_Fuck._

He clenches his hand into a fist, so tight his nails dig into his palm. He can feel Mel applying a new pad of gauze and wrapping his leg in fresh bandages, but even the burn of an iodine-soaked bandage can't take away the stinging shame. Tommy is straight-up _trembling,_ now, and he's staring at the floor. "Almost done," Mel says flatly. Ellie takes the soiled basin and tries to wipe his face with a rag, but Joel jerks away.

Mel ties off the bandage, to everyone's relief, and Tommy drops Joel's leg back onto the bed. Joel's too weak to move it himself. They tug the sheets over him quickly. Tommy's backing away and turning towards the door, looking as sick as Joel feels. "I . . . I gotta go."

Joel swallows hard. "To . . . Tommy . . ."

"I'll check in tonight." He's gone without another word.

Joel slams a fist into the bed, earning a disapproving look from Mel. Tommy's been around less and less, and when he does come by, he finds quick excuses to leave. And is it any wonder? Joel's been looking out for him since they were kids, and now he can't even piss on his own.

Ellie quickly pours water into a glass and tries to raise it to his lips. "Here . . ."

He turns his head and waves her away. 

She leans back, then continues, undaunted. "Okay . . . something for your stomach, then? We've still got some of that ginger tea. It's nasty, but it works."

He shakes his head.

She reaches for the sheet and tries to pull it down. "Let's at least get you onto some clean bedding. Trust me, you'll feel better."

He shoves her away. The words _no more_ are ringing over and over again in his brain, like a mantra. He can't look at her, and having _her_ looking at _him_ is just as bad.

"Okay, okay!" She grabs a book from the side table and flips it open. "Look, just . . . just tell me what I can do. Just point to what you need, that's all."

It's that damn picture book again - the ones with words like "snack" and "nap" and "bathroom" like something out of a toddler's nursery. His vision is blurring and he can't even make out the pictures, but hell if he's going to let her know that. _No more._ He grabs the book and chucks it across the room, as hard as he can. It crashes into the wall and falls to the floor, the pages crumpling.

The room is silent for a moment. When Joel finally brings himself to look at Ellie, he has to swallow a curse. Would've just come out garbled, anyway. She's backing away, looking like a kicked puppy. "I'm . . . I'm sorry. I was just trying to help."

Joel sighs, but before he can do a thing to make things right, she's out the door too.

In the ringing silence that follows, Mel runs a hand through her hair. "All things considered," she says dryly, "I think you should've just taken the sedative."

Joel glares at her - the only target for his frustrations that actually deserves it. He deliberately gives her the finger.

She snorts and grabs a fresh hospital gown from a bin by the door. "You want me to get you cleaned up? Or would you rather sit and stew a while longer?"

He gathers what remains of his mental energies and enunciates clearly. " _Fuck_ you."

Her face remains impassive. She shrugs. "Okay. 'Fuck me.' That's fine." She picks up the sketch pad and smooths out the pages. "You know what the difference is? Between treating _me_ like shit and treating _them_ like shit?" She folds the book shut and lays it on the bedside stand. " _They_ actually care what you think of them. So, resent me all you want. Be as pissed as you want, if it'll make you feel better. But, I'll be back when it's time for your next treatment."

She turns towards the door and Joel is, finally, alone.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Mel finds Ellie up in Joel's cramped workshop, sitting on the edge of the futon while she unstrings her guitar. Mel hesitates, then holds out a mug. "I brought tea."

Ellie looks up at her, then back down. "Not much of a tea drinker."

Mel sets the extra mug on the workbench, leans back against it, and sips from her own cup. "More for me, then." She pauses. "It's not his fault, you know."

"You've been saying that a lot, lately."

"It's called 'executive function.' Basically, the ability to not throw temper tantrums like a toddler. It's one of the skills that can be damaged with head trauma."

Ellie shakes her head. "Joel's never been good at accepting help." She hesitates. "You know, this isn't the first time he's almost died on me."

"Yeah?"

"You know that scar? The one right under his rib cage?" She touches a spot on her own abdomen.

"Yeah. Small hernia. Figured that was some kind of trauma."

"It was before Salt Lake City. We got jumped by this gang and he got impaled on a piece of rebar."

"Shit."

"I had to push his intestines back in with my hands. Nothing else to do but stitch it shut as best I could. He was out for weeks, barely conscious." Her hands are steady. She picks up a polishing cloth and starts cleaning the guitar.

"That must've been tough. You were, what, fourteen?"

She nods. "I told myself . . . if I could just keep him breathing, everything would be okay."

"And he got better. Obviously."

Ellie hears the cool note in her voice, despite Mel's best efforts to conceal it. She looks up at her and rolls her eyes. "I know what you're thinking. Keep it to yourself."

"I didn't say anything."

"Yeah." She applied a bit of oil to the fretboard and wiped it clean. "Fever set in. I could barely get him to eat or drink. I was starting to think he wasn't going to make it. And then . . ." she shrugged, "I got myself into trouble."

"What sort of trouble?"

"Oh, the usual. Infected. Murderous gangs. A couple of cannibals just to spice things up. I ended up getting taken prisoner by this . . . asshole. Leader of Asshole City, it turned out. And somehow, Joel got to me. He could barely _walk_ , but he fought his way through the whole town and he got me out."

Mel shakes away the memory of bloody hallways. Then, she looks at Ellie and realizes she's thinking the same thing.

"I should've known, then. What he was gonna do."

Parental instinct. Mel touches her own abdomen briefly and pulls her hand away before Ellie catches her. Shit, her fetus doesn't even have a _face_ yet, and is she so sure she wouldn't burn the world to keep it alive?

"What he did isn't on you."

The girl just shrugs.

"What is it that you want, Ellie? To repay him? Or to atone for him?"

She shakes her head. "I don't fucking know." She restrings the guitar slowly and deliberately. "Right now, I just want him to keep breathing."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

The sunlight is still streaming through the windows. Even with his eyes closed, it feels like knives to the back of his skull. Joel pillows his arm over his eyes, sighs, and tries to wait it out. Not like there's anything else he can do. He should've found some way to ask for the curtains to be closed, but that would've meant talking to fucking Mel, and he's just had enough.

He glares at the door, though she's long gone. He _does_ resent her, though not entirely for the reasons she thinks. He's always known, on some level, that he wouldn't be able to outrun his past forever. If it hadn't been the Wolves, some other injured or outraged party would've come to collect. At least with Abby's crew, he was paying for something that mattered - something he didn't regret. Would've been better if they'd made it quick and clean, like the avenging angels they clearly saw themselves as, but all things considered, Joel wasn't surprised when they decided to drag it out a little.

Everything after that, though, was just Mel. Fucking Mel, taking advantage of Ellie's desperation just so she could save her own skin. They've explained it to him: holes drilled in his skull, surgeries on his leg, weeks of meals through a tube, pissing through a tube, wasting away like a useless invalid.

And, now look at them. Tommy, ashamed to even look at him. Ellie, spending her days cleaning up his piss and shit when she should be living her life. And Joel, not able to do a damn thing but watch it happen. 

When he first woke up, survival felt like a miracle. That was before he knew what it had cost.

He remembers the golf club, dripping with his blood. It was a source of terror at the time - a sign of the inevitability of death and of pain. Now, he catches himself thinking of it longingly, like a lost lover. He could've just . . . gone out like that. While he was still strong, still unbroken. He could've faded out into whatever comes next, secure in the knowledge that Ellie was safe and well. That she forgave him, or at least that she could try. They'd have mourned him, of course. And then they'd have moved on, and the people he loved wouldn't be shackled to his bedside watching him wither away. He wouldn't be fucking them up even worse just because he couldn't handle a little pain.

He opens his eyes and carefully scans everything within arm's reach. The daily pill case on the bedside table. Refill bottles on the nearby bookshelf. Gleaming syringes and vials of clear, innocuous-looking liquids. More than enough . . .

He sighs. He knows there's no point in summoning the energy to grab for the pills or the needles. Even if he could . . . manage, odds are Ellie would be the one to find him. He can't do that to her - not after all the other shit he's put her through. And, besides, he's been down this road before, back when he had nobody to mourn him. He knows he can't go through with it - not even for _her_ sake. He's just gonna have to take the long way around, and try his best not to hurt anyone else before his body inevitably gives out.

_"You don't get to rush this."_

He snorts. If that kid only knew. If she only _fucking_ knew.

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A synapse is the connection between two nerve cells where they communicate. The chapter title is a reference both to Joel's literal brain damage and a figurative reference to the breakdowns in communication that happen between various characters.
> 
> Feedback and concrit are very much appreciated.


	7. Mercy in the Time of Cordyceps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abby just needs it to be over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence and brief reference to suicidal ideation.

A comfortable din fills the cafeteria - clanking plates and overlapping voices. Dinner tonight is chicken fried rice with a couple of eggs. Abby forces herself to tuck in. She's down two pounds over the past week, despite the extra hours in the gym, and she really can't afford any more missed meals. Across from her, Manny eats with a bit more gusto, continuing his story in between bites. "So, there I am with my dick out and the Scar comes up behind me, thinking he's being all sneaky. So, I don't even look, I just tell the pendejo 'give me a minute, man, I'll kill you once I'm done pissing.' And the fucker has no idea what to do! He just sort of freezes and stares at me until I zip it up, turn around, and blow his head off."

Abby snorts. "You're lucky to be alive."

"Would've been an embarrassing way to go, for sure."

"They've been getting bolder. Everybody's starting to go a little crazy from all these ambushes."

"You don't have to tell me. It's like the bastards can teleport."

Abby looks up at the sound of approaching feet. A moment later, Owen sinks down onto the bench beside her. He doesn't have a tray. He smoothes out a few sheets of paper. "Letter from Jackson," he says shortly, "Arrived with that trade caravan."

Abby puts her fork down. "Is she alive?"

"She was when she wrote the letter." He pauses and clears his throat. 

" _Dear Owen. I don't want you to worry about me. They're treating me okay. Jackson doesn't really have anyone with medical expertise, so I've got job security._

_"The town looks like something from before the outbreak. They've got electricity, running water, even little shops and restaurants. I don't think they see much conflict, besides the occasional horde. Even though we didn't kill any of theirs, everyone seems pretty shaken. I've been keeping to myself. Tommy Miller's wife runs Jackson and the brothers are very well-liked._

_"Putting Joel back together has been a job and a half, but it looks like he'll make it. The head trauma's pretty bad, but he's making progress. He might still lose the leg. I told them it would be better just to amputate, but for now, they're making me try to save it."_

Owen hesitates and grinds his teeth before continuing. _"Tell Abby he's in a lot of pain. She'll appreciate that."_

Abby is careful to hide a flinch.

_"The girl, Ellie, turns out to be just as terrifying once you get to know her. She's basically Joel's daughter, and she's been helping take care of him. I think she's starting to trust me, but the kid knows how to hold a grudge. You can tell Isaac that there hasn't been any talk of retaliation against Seattle, though. Ellie and Tommy might want to, but Maria won't allow it._

_"As far as I can tell, the baby is doing fine. No one's found out about it yet. I guess if they confront me tomorrow, I'll know they've been reading my mail, but I don't think they'll hurt it. That's not their style, plus they still need me._

_"There's no knowing how long I'll be here. He's mostly out of danger, but Joel's recovery will take months. I'll write when I can and send the letters whenever a trader is headed your way."_

He swallows, staring at the page. _"Give Manny my best, and Abby. I don't blame her - not really. May your survival be long. Mel."_

Abby can't lift her eyes from her tray. She pushes a bit of egg around with her fork. She knows she's not going to eat. She'll worry about her gains another day. "She could still be in trouble. Even if it's her handwriting, they could be forcing her to write that letter."

"We've got code phrases for when someone is under duress. She didn't use any of them."

"So, she's still alive," she says evenly, "Means there's still time."

Owen looks at her and shakes his head. "No. C'mon, Abby, we've been over this!"

"What, you want to just leave her there? It's _Mel_!"

"If we go back to Jackson, we'd just be putting her at risk. One slip up. If they even _smell_ another attack, they'll kill her."

"Probably not just her, either," Manny says. His face is serious. "Two attacks in a year . . . Jackson would retaliate. They'd almost have to."

"I'll talk to Isaac. He can get us reinforcements - enough to make sure we can get her out. We don't just abandon our people!"

Owen's face is hard. "Abby, you know Isaac's not giving us any reinforcements. He told us from the start that whatever trouble we ran into out there, we were on our own."

"He owes me favors. I can make him see . . ."

"And even if he wanted to, how? That town is a fortress. It would take an army just to get past the walls, and in case you hadn't noticed, this one's a little busy."

Abby presses her lips together. "A small group could do it. In and out, quietly. Jackson brings traders through all the time - we could slip in with them."

Owen glares at her. This argument is familiar. They had it about twenty times before she'd talked them all into going after Tommy Miller. "Is this even about Mel? Or is it just you wanting to finish the job?"

Abby hesitates and her face betrays her. Owen doesn't give her a chance to respond. "Oh, come on, Abby! What the hell do you think you'd be accomplishing?"

"Justice! Like we said from the start, right? After everybody we lost in Salt Lake - everybody we lost in _Jackson_ \- it can't just be for nothing! He doesn't get to just have the last word - not about this."

"How are you still this fucking bloodthirsty? Hasn't your little revenge quest gone far enough?"

"It wouldn't even be about revenge. It'd be a mercy killing, and you know it!"

"And how many more people have to die for it?"

"Owen . . ."

"No! We're not putting Mel at risk. Let it go, Abby."

He stands and leaves without another word, stuffing the letter into his jacket as he does so. Abby throws her fork down in frustration. Manny scrapes up the last of his rice while watching her, his face impassive. "Vamanos," he says at last, "Let's get some air."

She stands, rolling her shoulders to loosen the tension, and follows him out of the cafeteria and down a few flights of stairs until they reach a walkway that looks out over the city. The sun is setting over the water. Manny leans his forearms on the railing and Abby steps up beside him. They're silent for a moment. "Nobody blames you," he says finally, "Owen's just being an ass. You know how he gets."

She shrugs. "He's right, though. I put her at risk. And not just Mel. Nora, Nick, Jordan, Leah . . . they'd be alive if it wasn't for me."

"Hey, every one of us knew what we were getting into! We knew there was a chance Jackson would be a one-way trip. They believed in what we were doing - in justice for Salt Lake."

"Yeah. And it would've worked, too. If I'd just been able to stick the landing."

He sighs without looking at her. "We all had our reasons for going. I lost a lot of buddies at St. Mary's. I lost my _mission_ , and that's not something that comes back once it's gone. But, you . . . I can't even imagine. If it was _my_ dad? I'd want to burn down the fucking city. Anybody would've gotten emotional."

"But, not just anybody would've done what I did." She stares down at her hands. A couple of her fingers are still crooked from where Ellie broke them. "My dad . . . did I ever tell you he taught me how to hunt?"

His eyebrows lift a little. "No. Not the kind of hobby I'd have expected of old Doc Anderson."

"He was pretty good. Taught me how to track game, how to shoot. He always said . . ." She trails off, almost chickens out, and then steadies herself. "He said if you hit something and leave it wounded, you _have_ to finish it off. Whether it was a bird, a deer, even a runner. I clipped a squirrel once, and he made me spend three hours tracking it down. He couldn't stand the thought of some animal out there in pain."

Manny stares at her, his face impassive. "You regret it," he says finally with a slight tone of surprise, "Not just because of Mel and all the rest. You feel bad for Joel."

She snorts. " _Bad_ is too strong a word. The man is a monster. But, when I think about what I did . . . maybe I am, too."

"You're not. You're just a soldier." He drops his head and shifts his feet. "And you need to move on. We don't get do-overs."

"I know. I just want to kill the damn squirrel and get it over with." She turns to him. "Come with me."

"No." He answers without hesitation.

"Manny . . ."

"Isaac will never let you go - not with things heating up this much with the Scars. He's not gonna want to risk retaliation from Jackson, either."

"I'll talk to him. I'll talk him around. He was a Firefly too, once."

"You know you won't change his mind. If you leave, you're AWOL. And, there's a good chance he won't let you come back." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Abs. But, I've got my family to think about."

"Yeah," she says softly, "I know."

He rubs at the back of his neck. "I can't convince you to stay, can I?"

She shakes her head slowly. "I have to _fix this_ , Manny."

"Yeah. I know." He impulsively pulls her into a hug. She hesitates only a moment before returning it. "May your survival be long."

She snorts and forces a smile. "May your death be swift."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

If the years of war with the Scars have taught Abby anything, it's that there's no such thing as an impenetrable fortress. Every human habitation has its weak points - blind spots on the walls, forgotten access shafts, smugglers' bolt holes, and the like. 

In Jackson, naturally, it's the sewers. She grimaces as she half-crawls, half-climbs through the winding pipes. She half-expected this would be her entry route, so at least she came prepared. Waterproof coveralls and knee-high Wellington boots keep most of the filth off her clothes, but there's no escaping that smell. It is what it is. She just hopes Mel doesn't put up too much of a fuss about using these tunnels on the way out. Whatever filth-borne diseases are in this muck, they'll pose much less of a threat than the people of Jackson once she finishes her mission.

In the dim light, she almost misses her egress route. Her flashlight beam bounces off the grate when she's almost on top of it, and she quickly switches the light off in case anyone's there. After a few moments of careful listening, though, it's clear that the maintenance shaft on the other side of that grate is empty. She's alone. It's early evening - dinner time for most civilized people. She's not surprised that there are no workers down here at this hour.

It takes a few minutes to lift the grate, shimmy out of the pipe, and strip her soiled gear. Her pack holds clean-ish clothes - a baggy hoodie, a thick flannel jacket, canvas pants. Nothing with WLF patches, of course. She doesn't dare bring a long gun or any other visible weapon into town, but she hides a few shivs in her pockets and her best pistol in the waistband of her trousers. Though it's getting almost too warm for it, she tucks her hair up under a cap. It's hard to guess how much suspicion she'll draw, as an outsider. Jackson is too big for everyone to know every resident on sight, plus she's seen trader caravans coming and going. Maybe a dozen of Jackson's finest have seen her face, but for most of them, that was only after Tommy Miller was finished with her. With her bruises healed, her hair tucked up, and her bulk concealed under layers, she can probably fly under the radar unless she has the misfortune of running into Tommy himself.

Once she's changed, Abby tucks her soiled gear into a corner behind some machinery, draws a deep breath to steady her nerves, and follows the helpful red "exit" signs up a ladder and out. She emerges through a manhole cover onto a street that's fortunately empty. A few of the houses on either side are lit and she can see the silhouettes of people within, but no one seems to notice her. Great. Now, all she has to do is find one particular family, break in, kill the local leader's brother-in-law, and sneak out with a heavily guarded hostage, all without being spotted or recognized by any of Jackson's soldiers. Easy peasy.

She heads a few blocks downhill, towards the glow of electric lights and the sound of human voices. As she walks, she starts to realize that Jackson's population is deceptively small. From a distance, all she could see was the impressive banks of floodlights and what seemed like well over a hundred houses. On this street, though, at least one house in three is vacant, with boarded up windows and weed-choked lawns. It makes sense - from her studies before the first trip, she knows that Jackson before the outbreak was a city of almost ten thousand people. It's hard to say how many it holds now - a few hundred, at most.

She reaches a main street, of sorts, with a couple dozen people coming and going. Tailors and grocers and restaurants have all set up shop here and are apparently doing good business. She pauses for a moment at the door to a large pub. Might not be a bad idea to have a drink, blend with the crowd, and try to overhear some local gossip . . . She abandons the plan when she recognizes the grizzled bartender. He's one of Maria's goons. She tugs her hoodie closer around her head and walks on, just hoping he hasn't seen her.

She tucks her hands in her pockets and keeps her head down, but her eyes dart furtively from face to face, trying to gauge threat levels. She wonders if this is what the Scars feel like when they sneak behind enemy lines. If so, it's no wonder they all go crazy.

She turns down a more sparsely populated side street and pauses for a moment, trying to get her bearings. She's not sure what she expected - a fucking directory? The odds of Joel once again falling into her hands by pure luck are astronomically slim. Maybe they moved him to some kind of infirmary? Not a hospital - she passed the old Jackson Medical Center a mile outside the city and she could practically hear the clicking and smell the spores from the road - but a city this size might have some kind of improvised clinic or nursing home. Except, that doesn't fit with what Mel said about Joel's daughter helping with his care. She certainly made it sound like more of a family affair, so maybe Abby should just start wandering the suburbs. The only thing she knows for sure is that when she finds Joel, she'll find Mel. She doesn't have to choose between her objectives - at least not yet.

Briefly, she toys with the idea of just grabbing somebody - maybe that asshole from back at the bar - and finding a nice quiet spot where she can make him talk . . . but, no. Too much risk of getting caught, plus she'd have to kill whoever she took to make sure they couldn't give her away. This is about doing things the _right way._ There's gotta be a better way to get the information that she needs.

A door bangs open maybe fifteen feet away and a middle-aged woman totters out of a shop, her arms laden with empty wooden crates. "Hey!" the woman barks, "Make yourself useful! Grab this door."

It takes Abby a moment to realize she's talking to _her_. She glances from side to side, then mentally shrugs and goes to hold the door.

"Thanks, hon." The woman piles the crates on the street corner. "My stock boy is probably off chasing tail at the _Bison_ by now. And the farm crews are gettin' really strict about crate returns." 

There's a couple of similar crates stacked near the door - only these are filled with potatoes. The shopkeeper tries to grab two at once and almost buckles under the weight. "Here, I've got it." Abby grabs a crate almost reflexively. Well, a bit of exercise won't hurt.

"'Preciate it, hon. You can just drop that off in the stock room."

Abby follows her into the store, trying to act natural.

"Don't think I've seen you around town." The woman's voice is still friendly, but Abby's back stiffens.

"Just passin' through." She tries to coarsen her voice, to better match the drawl a lot of Jacksonites seem to have.

The woman grunts. "You workin' Benny's caravan?"

That must be the trader she saw come through this afternoon. She remembers a couple of pickups, their beds covered in tarps, and a battered panel van. "Yeah."

"Well, watch out for yourself. The man's a cheat. There's one more crate out there, if you don't mind. My back, you see."

Fighting a smile that feels almost alien on her face, Abby goes, grabs the last crate of potatoes, and hauls it into the stock room.

"You get anything to eat, yet?" the shopkeeper asks.

Abby hesitates. "I'm fine."

"Nonsense. I've got a couple sandwiches left over from the lunchtime rush."

"I . . . I haven't gotten paid yet." Plus, she has no idea what constitutes currency in Jackson.

"Fucking Benny. You should really stop puttin' up with his shit. C'mon, let me feed you. Least I can do for your help."

All of Abby's training is screaming that this is a bad idea, but . . . the middle-aged grocer doesn't exactly seem like a threat. Plus, she's chatty. Right now, chatty is exactly what Abby needs. "Okay."

Within a couple minutes, the woman has her settled at a lunch counter with a ham and cheese sandwich in front of her. "Name's Sharon, by the way," she says as she fixes her own sandwich. "Didn't catch yours."

Abby hesitates. "Nora," she says finally.

"Good to make your acquaintance, Nora," Sharon says, "First time in Jackson?"

"No. But, first time in a long time." She pauses, then decides to take a risk. "I was actually thinking I might stay a while. Look for work, if there is any."

"We can always use more hands, but you'd have to talk to Maria about that."

"Maria Miller, right? She's the mayor around here?"

"We don't really hold to titles and formalities anymore, but, yeah, Maria's the boss."

"The Millers are old family friends. I was hoping I might talk to them. See if they'll let me stick around. Been forever since I've seen them, though. They might not even remember me."

Sharon bites into her sandwich. "Well, you'll find Maria at the same place as always. Downtown, two houses down from city hall. Tommy's still up at his brother's place, though."

Abby takes a large bite of her own sandwich to cover her reaction. She chews, swallows, and carefully suppresses her eagerness. "I ought to drop in on Tommy, too. Pay my respects."

Sharon sighs. "You heard, then?"

Abby chooses her words and tone carefully. "Just that there was some kind of attack."

"Fucking hunters!" The bile in her tone sets Abby's teeth on edge. "I really thought we were past the days of having to look over our shoulder every minute of the day. But, I guess it just goes to show, you can do everything right and it won't keep you safe. Just look at Joel."

Abby sips from a glass of milk and tries to look only mildly interested. "They ever find out what they wanted? The hunters?"

"Who the hell knows? Their guns, maybe? Their boots? The keys to the power plant? People will kill over just about anything these days."

"I only knew Tommy and Maria, and it's been years. I always got the sense that Joel was sort of a black sheep. Tommy used to imply he was wrapped up in some shady shit."

The woman shrugs. "People change. Joel settled in Jackson . . . oh, almost four years ago, now. Him and his little girl. They're good people, if a little private - always do their fair share and don't complain about it."

Abby chews, wondering how far she can safely push this. "Still, if he was into some shit before . . . could be he pissed off the wrong people."

"What, you're saying he brought it on himself?"

"I didn't say that," Abby says quickly, "Like I said, I never met him. It was just . . . an impression I got from Tommy. He said his brother wasn't exactly an angel."

"Well, that don't matter now, do it?"

Abby swigs a little more milk. "Guess not."

Sharon is studying her closely. Too closely. Abby keeps her face carefully neutral. She thinks about the gun tucked under her jacket. _Shit_ , she doesn't want to have to use it, but if she's tipped her hand . . .

"Anyway," Sharon says finally, "You'll find Tommy up at Joel's place. Make a right at the intersection, and then it's three blocks down. Don't be surprised if they don't let you see Joel, though. The family's been real protective."

"Understandable." Abby stuffs the last bite of the sandwich into her mouth to hide her relief. She stands and zips her jacket. It strikes her suddenly that, when she's done here, this woman is going to realize she's been used - that Abby was pumping her for information. In a small town like this, maybe her neighbors will even find out. Guilt tugs at her. The woman's been kind, and she doesn't deserve whatever reprobation the Millers or anyone else might dish out. It's not her fault that Jackson is harboring a mass murderer. She shakes off the twinge. Nothing she can do about it, so there's no point in dwelling on it. "Anyway," she says quietly, "Thank you. For the sandwich."

Sharon nods. "Don't be a stranger."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

The mailbox has his fucking name on it. Abby almost wants to laugh at the absurdity that something that started in the blood-stained halls of the Fireflies' last stronghold could end in this innocuous little house with flower beds and a mailbox marked "J. Miller." She doesn't laugh. She keeps her hood tucked close around her face and her eyes on the ground as she walks past, appearing to give the house no more than a half a glance. One of the houses across the street is dark and boarded up - perfect for her purposes. She rounds the block, cuts through a couple of back yards, and approaches the abandoned house from behind. There's a basement window covered with just a few loose boards. It's a tight fit, but once she pries them loose, she manages to worm her way into the cellar. She's pretty sure no one spots her in the growing gloom.

The air inside is close and musty. It's dark, but she doesn't dare risk a flashlight. She picks her way up the stairs and into the main living space. Here, at least, there's a little light, filtering through the boarded-up windows as thin, white bars. There's furniture here and there, covered in crisp linen sheets. This isn't a house left to molder but one carefully shuttered and preserved for its next occupants.

Abby needs a vantage point. She climbs to the second story and finds a front-facing bedroom. As quietly as possible, she pries one of the boards from the window, giving her just enough of a view. In the dark, it'll never be noticed.

Joel's house glows with warm light from nearly every window. Even the porch is lit and someone is sitting out front. Abby pulls out her hunting pistol and uses the scope for a closer look. It's the girl - _Ellie_ , Mel said. Basically Joel's daughter, whatever that means. She has a guitar on her lap and is strumming idly. It's a sharp, almost surreal contrast from the last time Abby saw her, crouched over Joel like an eagle protecting its nest. Abby's fingers ache sharply and she snorts. Must be rain coming.

Then, the front door swings open and all thought of Ellie is temporarily driven out of Abby's mind. Mel is stepping out onto the porch, pushing a wheelchair. Abby focuses on Mel first. She looks . . . good, all things considered. She's a little pale, but her hair is neatly trimmed and her face is as calm and composed as ever. She's wrapped in bulky sweatshirts - probably still trying to conceal her pregnancy.

Abby adjusts her thumb on the pistol's grip, settles her index finger firmly against the gun frame, and lowers the muzzle until the scope settles over the man in the wheelchair. Joel's face is craggy and grim. He's bundled even more warmly than Mel, with a jacket over his shoulders, scarf around his neck, and thick blanket over his lap. His right leg is propped out straight in front of him, immobilized by a splint and bulky bandages. He looks nothing like the man she imagined for all those years and bears only a passing resemblance to the man she actually found in the mountains outside Jackson, just two months ago.

Slowly, without really thinking about it, she lets her index finger slide from the gun frame down until it's resting light and steady over the trigger. There's not much left of him. Even from this range, her hunting pistol has more than enough power to kill him in one shot. She settles the scope over his temple. She's so close. All it would take is a quick twitch of her finger and it would be _done_. She'd be free.

Mel jostles the wheelchair just a little, probably to engage the brakes. Abby gasps and gets a hold of herself. If she takes that shot, she'll have all of Jackson in the street and looking for her within the hour. She'll never make it out, much less be able to free Mel and get her out as well. They might even think Mel was in on it; she was the one to bring Joel out onto the porch after all. She needs to be patient. She can't fuck this up again.

On the porch below, the three of them go on with their lives, blissfully ignorant of how close Abby came to upending it all. The girl stops strumming and says something to Joel, making him shrug. She holds out the guitar, but he shakes his head and won't take it. After a moment, she stands, slings it over her shoulder, and stuffs her hands in her pockets. She says something else that gets no response at all from him, then sighs and trudges down the porch stairs. Abby expects her to head for the street, but instead she turns when she reaches the yard and walks around the back of the house. 

Mel is leaning against the siding, arms folded. She speaks, still wearing that same carefully neutral expression. Abby wishes she could read her lips, but that's never been a talent of hers. After a moment, Joel responds with a scowl and a curt word. Mel steps around the wheelchair, squats down in front of him, and says something else. Her back is turned, now, so Abby focuses on Joel's face. There's something bleak in his expression. Bleak and deeply broken. After a moment, he shakes his head and looks back towards the house. Mel nods once, stands, and pushes him back inside.

Once the porch is empty, Abby lowers her gun and draws a slow, careful breath. This could _work_. She just needs to wait for full dark - for the witching hour when only the most dedicated insomniacs are awake - and slip into the house. Find Mel, find Joel, do what she needs to do, and get out. She can put things right, _finally_ , and then she can be done with this horror show.

She sits against the wall, wraps her arms around her knees, and settles in to wait.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Abby moves slowly, trying to keep the floorboards from creaking under her feet. The house is silent. There's clutter here and there, from too many people in too small a space - blankets stacked on the couch, dirty dishes piled on kitchen counters, a washbasin full of bloody bandages soaking in the corner. Abby takes it all in from behind her handgun but keeps her finger carefully pressed against the gun frame, away from the trigger. Mel is in here somewhere.

Joel's room is in the front of the house. He's asleep as she enters and doesn't stir. There's no lock on the door. She wedges a wooden chair under the door handle. That won't hold for long if she's caught, but it's better than nothing.

She draws a deep breath and glances around the room, getting her bearings. Joel's bed fills most of the available space, though there are a couple of hard chairs and a recliner crammed back in the corner and a TV against one wall. The bookshelves that line the walls have been pressed into double-duty to hold bandages, syringes, and vial after vial of medications. Abby recognizes Mel's stethoscope and swallows hard. There are personal details, here and there, like you might find in a hospital room. A vase of flowers on the windowsill bears a small card ("Best wishes for a speedy recovery!" -the Tanner family). A sketchpad collects dust on the coffee table. A couple of framed photos sit clustered on a side table by the bed. Joel and Tommy fishing. Joel and Ellie stroking a horse. Joel and some blonde girl she doesn't recognize. Abby looks away.

Joel himself lies still in the inclined bed, snoring softly. He's covered to the chest with blankets, but his arms rest on top of the covers. They're grizzled and wasted. The skin sags off the bone. She never saw much of his skin before - not with him covered from chin to toes the whole time - but she remembers how strong those arms were when they ripped her away from the horde. He's lost weight - a _lot_ of weight.

She steps quietly behind the head of the bed and stares down at him. There's light drifting in through the window from a streetlamp outside, and it falls starkly across his face. He looks like he's aged twenty years in two months. Even against the white pillowcase, his skin looks pale. She can see the deep furrows in his brow and his cheeks as well as the fine spider-webbing wrinkles that sag down from the corners of his eyes. There's a bit of spittle running from the left side of his mouth into his untrimmed beard. If she hadn't seen him sitting up and communicating earlier in the day, she might have thought he was a vegetable.

The scars stand out, red and angry across his face. She hovers her hand over them without quite touching, remembering the grief and the blind rage - the sense of helplessness and despair even as she held the power of life and death over him. The scars are clustered mostly around his left temple. More gray than she remembers fans out from his hairline there, turning his dark hair silver. Abby gathers herself. She doesn't feel anger, now - just a need to have it done. To _finish_ it.

To _fix_ it.

She holsters her gun. Before she can talk herself out of it, she clamps her hand across his mouth and presses down. "Had enough yet, old man?"

His eyes pop open at once and he lets out a slurred groan. She presses down harder to smother it. She keeps her voice low and even. "Don't scream. I'd only have to kill whoever came, and I don't want that any more than you do." She pauses. "Do you understand me, Joel?"

He falls silent. His breath hisses warm against her hand. He nods just a little.

She presses her lips together and forces herself to keep meeting his eyes. "I'm here to end it. Don't fight me and I'll make it clean. Just you and me, yeah? Like it should have been from the start." A complicated mess of emotions flicker across his face. Pain. Grief. Regret. And something that, somehow, looks a lot like hope. She slowly pulls her hand away. He doesn't scream. "Where's Mel?"

His face tightens and his lips part but only a soft _uh_ leaves them. Frustration flashes across his face. His mouth moves soundlessly for a moment, like a goldfish. "D . . . duh . . ."

He can't speak. After a moment, he gives up. Abby remembers him as he was all those weeks ago: defiant, resolved, proud until the pain got to be too much. There's only a shadow of that man left, but she can still see it. He raises a steady hand and points. Down the hallway. Past the kitchen. He jerks his thumb. On the right. She nods to show that she's understood. She wonders if this is him accepting death all over again or if he just never stopped waiting for it. _Get it over with._

There's so much she wants to say to him. That she didn't mean for it to be like this. That, all the same, he deserves worse. That her father knew something about all fifty of the old states, and every time she found a quarter, he would share some little anecdote that made her believe the world might someday be normal again. She pushes that aside. It doesn't matter. She doesn't care about the horse in the photo beside his bed, and he won't care what Jerry Anderson said to his loved ones.

"Okay," she says quietly, "Don't fight, and this will be over in a minute." Her voice is softer than she intended. Gentler.

She cups the back of his neck with one hand and pulls the pillow out from under his head. There are so many ways that she could do this. A snap of his neck or a blade to the carotid would be quickest, but the pillow seems less violent. "This won't leave a mark," she explains, "They'll think you just died in your sleep."

He turns his head away. He's staring at the pictures on the bedside table like he's trying to memorize them. He nods slightly. This is a coup de grace, and they both know it. He's had enough.

She puts one hand on his chest, for when he inevitably struggles. With the other, she puts the pillow over his face and presses down. Joel's whole body goes tense, but for the first thirty seconds or so, he doesn't fight. Silence stretches between them. There's an ugly kind of intimacy to it. When instinct takes over and his hands come up to claw at her, she pushes them down and pins them over his chest, careful not to let up. His legs twitch and jerk, tangled in the covers. "Easy," she whispers, "Just go down easy."

She closes her eyes for a moment and sees her father, lying still in a pool of blood. She says goodbye to the ghost because if _this_ doesn't banish it, then nothing will. This is how it should be: one clean death, avenging another. And once it's done, she can leave it behind. It'll leave _her_ behind.

In her distraction, she misses the moment when Joel's involuntary struggles turn into conscious resistance. He'd been weakening, but the adrenaline surge seems to hit him all at once. His right arm twists, escaping her grip, and when she grabs for it, his other hand shoots up and sudden pain lances through her thumb. She looks down, hissing at the sting. He has his thumbnail pressed at the base of hers. There's not much more he can do. She abandons trying to pin his arm and instead leverages her weight with both hands on the pillow, but in the scuffle, he manages to get a breath in. "Idiot!" she hisses, "I'd just have to start over." He's not giving up. His shoulders rock. He claws and pries at her hands. He's weakening, though . . .

His thumb suddenly drives into her wrist, between the tendons. Radiating pain flashes and tingles and her fingers briefly go numb. That's all the opening he needs. He yanks the pillow down and screams, his voice hoarse and rough and loud enough to wake the whole house. There's a sudden thud of feet on the floorboards above her head. Footsteps pound down the stairs and across the hallway and a heavy weight slams into the door, rocking the chair. "Shit!"

Tommy. Of-fucking-course. Abby drops the pillow and grabs her handgun. Joel rolls away from her and crashes to the floor, still tangled in the blankets. "You fucking psychopath," she growls, "You could have saved them from me."

There's another thud against the door and more approaching feet. "What the fuck, Tommy?"

"The door's jammed. There's somebody _in there_ with him!"

"Oh, god." The next thud is lighter but sharper.

"Dina, go get help!"

"On it."

More footsteps. They're down to just two in the hallway. She can handle two, even if it's Tommy and Ellie. She spares a half a glance for Joel, but he's just hunched over himself, staring at his hands as if he can't believe what he's done.

"Where the fuck is Mel?" Tommy bellows as he rams the door again.

"You think she did this?"

"Who else?"

"I'm here. What's wrong?"

Abby's breath catches. The door is thin. She could shoot right through it and _probably_ just hit Tommy, but with Mel out there, that's a risk she can't take. She needs to wait for a clear line of sight. Behind her, in the house next door, lights are clicking on.

"What's _wrong_? Somebody's attacked Joel! In his own bed, this time."

"Did you _see_ someone?"

"The fuck does it matter?"

"He could've screamed for a lot of reasons. A seizure. A night terror."

"And jammed the door himself, did he? What did he sleepwalk?"

While he talks, Tommy keeps pounding on the door. The chair is bending under the force. Outside, lights are clicking on in the house next door and across the street. The odds against her are mounting by the moment. She half wants to burst through the door and come out shooting . . . but, Ellie's taken Mel as a hostage once, and she won't hesitate to do it again. She has to shoot. There's no other choice.

Before she can pull the trigger, something heavy shatters across the side of her face, splattering her with water and cut daisies. She swats glass shards off of her skin and sees a note flutter to the ground. _Best wishes for a speedy recovery!_ How Joel found the strength and dexterity to throw the vase, she has no idea, but she means to make it the last mistake he'll ever make. She vaults over the bed, yanks him up, and wraps an arm around his throat from behind. "You never _fucking_ learn, do you?" He lets out a garbled cry and claws at her forearm. 

On the other side of the door, the panic in Tommy's voice intensifies. " _Shit!_ Grab that table! We've gotta ram the door!"

"Do you think it's Abby?"

"It don't matter! Whoever it is, they're _fucking dead!_ "

Joel is still struggling - fighting with all of his limited strength. Abby doesn't know what she expected - understanding? Gratitude? She's fucked this up. She flubbed the damn landing again. She was so desperate to course correct that she forgot life's most basic lesson: that death, however justified or necessary, can never be anything but brutal.

Joel's weakening. She can still put things right, at least a little. She can _end this_.

But.

Mel.

They'll take it out on her - no matter that she clearly wasn't involved. They'll hurt her. Probably kill her. Might not make it clean, either. And as much as Abby wants to believe she can fight all of Jackson and get her home safe, she knows she's lied to herself too much already. It's the same choice Mel made all those months ago: a life for a life.

Joel is nearly finished. He taps her arm twice - a gesture of surrender, a plea that seems mostly instinctive. She makes her decision inside the space of a heartbeat. Her arm relaxes and she shoves him to the ground, so hard his cheek glances off the hardwood. He rolls, coughs, and scrambles back. She lifts her gun and gets the dubious reward of momentary panic flashing across his eyes. Instead of swinging it in line, she takes the butt of the pistol and smashes it against the nearest window, shattering the glass into a hundred tinkling pieces. She's not going to get another shot at this, but she can't think about that right now. 

"Have it your way," she tells him flatly before leaping out into the night.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Joel sits in the recliner with his fists pressed against his eye sockets, trying to keep track of a room full of angry voices.

"You said he'd be safe here. You said the guards on the wall would keep out any more attacks. How _the fuck_ did this happen, Maria?" Ellie's voice is a snarl.

"We don't know yet, but we're working on it! She didn't come in with the trader caravan - we screened every last one of them. She must've found another way through the wall."

"Well, what the fuck do you plan on doin' about it?" That's Tommy, and while Joel appreciates the show of loyalty, he doesn't really want to see his brother banished to the couch for the rest of time. He opens his eyes, lifts his hands, and tries to wave for quiet. None of them even seem to notice. Joel might be the guest of honor, but this ain't his party anymore.

He feels a moment's twinge. Maybe he should've just let her do it . . . The feeling dissolves as fast as it came, dispelled by the clarity he found while the girl was choking the life out of him. He's not done. He's got too much he still needs to do - too much he still needs to _say_ first.

Dina silently presses a glass of water into his hands. He takes a sip, nods in thanks, and scans the room. Tommy's agitated, and Ellie even more so. Maria stands by the door with her arms crossed and her expression controlled, but there's a storm behind her eyes. An attack on him is an attack on _Jackson,_ it seems, and she takes that personal. 

Mel is leaning against the far wall like she's trying to sink into the plaster. When they first busted through the door, she helped lift him into the chair and wanted to fuss over him by examining his throat and straightening his splint. He waved her away because he could only deal with so many sensory inputs at once and the room felt like a fucking rave as it was. Now, though, he wonders if he should've let her do her work, if only as a demonstration of loyalty. Every few minutes, Tommy shoots her a look of pure bile.

"We've got dozens of people combing the town. We're knocking on every door, we're checking every hidey-hole. There's just no sign of her yet."

"And, what do we do if they come up empty?" Ellie is pacing the floor, but every few seconds, she glances at Joel, as if to reassure herself that he's still here.

"Give them an hour to work, first!"

"What do we do? If there's no sign of her, are we just supposed to sit here and wait until she comes back?"

Joel opens his mouth to tell them what she said - _"have it your way"_ \- but, of course, the words won't come. He scowls. Maria glances at him, then back at Ellie. "I didn't say that."

"Something will have to be done," Tommy says sharply.

Mel closes her eyes. She's a tough kid, but she seems close to crying.

"Yeah," Maria says after a long moment, "Maybe you're right."

Tommy takes a slow breath. Joel has a foreboding vision of his brother as he was years and years ago - cold and ruthless in the face of his enemies, breaking down and trying to eat his gun in the quiet space afterwards. "We got more than enough to track her down. We know her name. Her city. Her fucking gang's name and the names of her best buddies. Bet if we asked _that one_ , she could tell us even more." Mel's face pales and her jaw clenches.

Joel clears his throat and enunciates. "No." Ellie's head whips towards him. Tommy seems startled, as if he'd forgotten Joel was there. 

Maria looks at Joel, then Mel, then down at the floor. "We can send a team towards Seattle," she says finally, "Maybe they can intercept her. We've gotta do something - the girl's a menace to the whole town."

"I'll go," Ellie says quickly, "I know what she looks like - I know what they _all_ look like. I can get there, cut her off, and take her out."

"No," Joel says sharply.

She looks at him. "I'll be fine. I can take care of myself."

Bullshit. He pictures Ellie - _his_ Ellie - on a collision course with that broken girl. Ellie, face to face with all that rage. There's no way. She'd either die or become a monster herself, with no in-between. He leans forward and grabs her hand. " _No._ "

She growls with annoyance. "Joel . . ."

She needs more from him. Someday, he needs to explain it all to her, but he can't. Not yet. Still, he has to make himself understood, before it's too late. He has to give her something.

There was something Mel told him before - something that seemed silly but might just work. He yields to desperation. He looks down, closes his eyes, and sings.

_"If . . . I ever were to lose you . . . I'd surely lose myself . . ._ "

It's more words than he's strung together in weeks. Ellie seems momentarily speechless. He looks her in the eye. "No."

He turns to Tommy. _"No."_

He looks, finally, at Maria. "No." She meets his gaze for long moments. Her eyes are hard, but he doesn't budge, either. After a pause that seems like an eternity, she sighs and nods.

It's something.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Mel carefully lifts Joel's eyelid and shines a light into his eye. There's probably a half dozen broken blood vessels staining the whites of his eyes red, but the cornea looks okay. The retina, too, from what she can tell. "Any blurriness?" she asks. He shakes his head.

She sets the ophthalmoscope aside and presses her stethoscope to his back. "Deep breath in." He breathes, and she listens for the telltale crackle of fluid in his lungs. There's nothing - at least not yet. "Damage to the lungs can take a day or two to fully manifest," she tells him, "If you're feeling short of breath or there's pain in your chest or your neck, let me know, okay?"

He nods absently. The house around them is silent. Tommy is off consulting with Maria on how best to beef up Jackson's security. Ellie is out in the yard somewhere, patrolling with a shotgun. Dina made a few attempts to get her to return to bed before giving up and all but passing out herself.

"Let's get you back to bed," she says. She steps close, bends her knees, and wraps her arms around him, just under his armpits. It's an embrace that always feels awkwardly intimate, but it's the only way to move someone of his size without help. She lifts, twists, and deposits him onto the bed. He's not stiff and rigid the way he normally would be. His near-death experience seems to have had an oddly calming effect on him. Mel, though . . . it's taking everything she has not to break down. She focuses her brain on what she knows: potential complications of near-strangulation. Tracheal trauma. Contusions. Hypoxemia. Noncardiogenic pulmonary edema. Anything to keep her mind off of what happened. Abby was _right there_ , but not for her. Just for Joel Miller.

It takes a couple minutes to get him positioned on the mattress - a process that requires the help of a draw sheet and a few well-practiced maneuvers. Joel is staring thoughtfully at the broken window. Tommy hammered a sheet of plywood over it before he left to talk it over with Maria. Joel doesn't react as Mel pulls the covers over him and lowers the bed until it's barely inclined.

"Abby," he says suddenly.

Mel hesitates. "Are you getting names crossed again?"

He snorts and shakes his head. "Mel." He pauses, then looks up at her, intently. "Abby."

She swallows and looks away. "What about her?"

There's a long silence. His face is set and determined, the way it is when he's searching for the right word. "Young," he says finally.

Mel sighs. "Yeah. She'll be . . . twenty-one this fall."

Joel nods while looking away. His jaw works, like he's chewing on his tongue. "Why?"

It's a question Mel's been expecting for a while, but that doesn't make it any easier to answer. "I told you," she says after a long pause, "We were Fireflies. You killed, like . . . half the people we knew."

He nods and waves his hand almost dismissively before looking up at her again. "Abby."

There's an intensity in his expression that she hasn't seen before. He's not giving up on this line of questioning. She looks away. "She grew up in the movement. Her father was a Firefly. He was a researcher, working on the vaccine. One of the last we had."

Joel closes his eyes and looks away. "Surgeon," he says after a long moment.

Mel swallows. "Yeah. You killed him in the operating room to get to Ellie."

His jaw tightens. He looks older than she's ever seen him. "Choice," he says finally.

"You think you didn't have a choice?"

His brows knit together. He shakes his head sharply, but in a way that looks more like _"that's not it"_ than _"no, I didn't."_ He taps himself lightly on the chest once. His lips open and close, but whatever it is, the words won't come. After a minute or so, he gives up.

Mel doesn't push him. She nudges him onto his side so that she can pull the draw sheet out from under his hips. He rolls back towards her and pauses, his gaze fixed somewhere around her navel. "When?" he asks after a long moment.

She looks away. "When did she decide to come after you? Years ago. Hard to say for sure."

He shakes his head, as if that doesn't matter. Slowly and very gently, he lifts a hand and rests it over her abdomen. He stares for a moment longer, then looks up and meets her gaze. "When?"

There's a hard lump in her throat. She swallows and looks down. "I'm due in September." She wraps a protective hand around her belly.

Joel nods once. "F . . . father?" He hesitates. "Dead?"

She shakes her head quickly. "His name's Owen. He's . . . he's one of the ones who got away."

Joel just nods, as if the news that the father of Mel's child is one of his attempted murderers hardly matters.

She closes her eyes and draws a slow breath. "You know," she says quietly, "You're the first in your family to even notice."

He takes her hand and squeezes. It's the kind of gentleness she's only glimpsed from him before, and only in quiet moments with Ellie. Mel doesn't quite know how to respond.

She forces herself to meet his gaze. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything. I . . . I haven't decided how to tell them yet."

A half-smile tugs at his mouth. It's a little sad. He mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key.

"Thank you." She tugs the blankets up and turns to leave.

"Mel . . ." He grabs her hand, startling her. She turns and waits. It's a long wait, and it's hard to say whether that's all from the aphasia or if he truly isn't sure what to say. His face is intent. His brow furrows. He tries to mime it out by touching his chest, then his throat. "V . . . voice," he whispers finally. He touches his chest again. "Voice."

"Your voice," she translates. He nods. She waits.

He swallows and looks away. For a minute, he just stares out the window. The spiral-bound communication board is still sitting on the table. He picks it up and flips it open, but instead of pointing to a box, he lays his hand over the whole page, fingers outstretched. Mel watches, wondering if he's forgotten how to use it, but when he looks up at her, he's not confused. He's trying to make her understand. She studies the page beneath his fingers. It's the first page - the page for basic needs.

It comes to her suddenly. "Need."

He nods. "N . . . need . . . voice.

"You need your voice."

Relief flashes across his face. He nods.

She drags her fingers through her hair. "It's not going to be easy," she warns.

He shrugs, as if to say _what ever is?_

Outside the window, she sees Ellie trudge by, her gun catching the moonlight. Mel doesn't know what brought on this . . . breakthrough, if that's what it is, but she's willing to bet it comes back to Ellie, somehow. Everything in Joel's life does. She looks down at him. "We can start speech therapy in the morning. For now, you should get some rest. You need it."

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback of all kinds is deeply appreciated, and those of you who've reviewed previous chapters have my immense gratitude. With all the demands of the holiday season in this particularly insane year, I've not had a chance to respond to all of you (since I've been trying to put my energies towards putting out new content), but I want you all to know how much I enjoy and appreciate your comments.


	8. Comprehensive Wound Management

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Abby's attack, Mel is desperate to prove her loyalty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains violence and detailed medical procedures.

Mel holds a hand tight around her abdomen as the truck beneath her bumps and rolls over uneven asphalt. It's hard to say whether the little butterfly flutterings in her stomach are due to nerves or the early stirrings of her sixteen-week-old fetus. The roof above her is flapping canvas, and the seat beneath is hard plywood.

She tries not to think about the last time she was in this truck, but it's unavoidable. For that trip, she had Nora on her left, constantly wanting to talk shop, and Owen on her right, sharing covert touches and companionable silence. Up in the cab, Manny kept cracking jokes - terrible ones, to judge by Leah's exaggerated groans. And Abby sat on the far bench, hardly talking to any of them.

Ellie sits there now, with her shotgun across her knees. The girl has her eyes fixed on the bright flap where canvas lets in the morning sunlight. Dina sits beside her, close enough that their knees touch. Dina has the look of a woman who's deeply in love. Her expression is soft. Her face, when she looks at Ellie, almost glows. Ellie hardly seems to notice. Her face is tight and set. Seth is up in the cab because nobody wants to listen to him and Ellie bicker for an hour, but Mel doesn't think that's what's got her so tense. 

Their eight-man strike force is rounded out by Jesse and Seth's two sons. Mel studies the younger one for a moment - Luke. He looks like he wants to be anywhere but here, and Mel can sympathize. Luke is barely sixteen and wears his brown hair a little too long, in contrast to his father and brother's crew cuts. It flops into his face as he bends over the handgun in his lap. He's assembling the pistol with movements that look too careful and practiced - hands trying too hard not to shake. Mel's brow furrows. Tommy hadn't wanted the kid anywhere near this run, but Seth insisted. She gets the sense that he's trying to toughen him up.

The truck pulls off the road and into a parking lot before slowly rolling to a stop. Ellie is on her feet and hopping out of the bed before they've even come to a full stop. Mel swallows her trepidations and follows at a more cautious pace. She'd wanted nothing to do with this supply run, but Tommy insisted her expertise would be needed. And after Abby's stunt last week, she didn't dare push back.

They've parked in the middle of a weed-choked lot, maybe a hundred yards away from a couple of squat two and three story buildings. Even from this distance, she can make out the weather-beaten letters spelling out EMERGENCY over the nearest entrance. Mel takes a deep breath to settle her nerves. Hospitals are dangerous places unless they've been carefully reclaimed. This is where the earliest infected would have gone at the start of the outbreak and where they would have spread CBI to doctors, nurses, and everyone in their general vicinity as soon as they turned. Now decades later, most hospitals remain simmering hives. In Seattle, clearing a facility like this would take weeks of careful work by a full squad. Aside from a few desperate supply raids, the Jackson Medical Center has been left mostly alone.

Tommy's face is grim. He waves them over and starts handing out gas masks. "Okay. We gotta do this fast and quiet. Everybody stay close and don't tussle with the infected unless you absolutely have to. We're here for the drugs and the supplies - that's all. Now, the surgery floors and the ICU should have most of what we need, but we've gotta slip past the infected on the ground floor to get there. Mel, you got those lists with the drug names?"

Mel fishes in her pocket and pulls out a few handwritten slips of paper with common antibiotics and pain medications copied. "This is what we'll need to focus on, but grab as much as you can. If you're not sure of something, just ask. Remember, we also need IV bags, tubing, and as much bandage material as you can carry. All of that should be in cabinets close to the ICU, but the good drugs will be locked up in safes. Check the nursing stations for extra keys."

"We can blast the safes open if we have to," Ellie points out.

"Sure," Jesse says, "As long as you don't mind drawing every infected within a five hundred foot radius down on us." Ellie shrugs. She's stringing her bow with quick, practiced movements.

Tommy fishes in his pack, comes up with clips of ammo, and tosses a couple each to Ellie, Dina, and Jesse. Seth has his own stash and hands some out to Luke and Daniel. "If you've gotta shoot, try to use the silencers."

Mel fits her gas mask over her face, tightens the straps, and checks it for fit. She spits Tommy with a hard look. "I need a gun."

His face tightens. "You've gotta be kidding me!"

She stands her ground. Tommy's opinion of her loyalty won't really matter if she ends up dead. "That place is crawling with infected! I'm not going in there unarmed."

"I think you lost your second amendment rights when you _tried to murder my brother_."

"Just while we're in there."

"Girl . . ."

"I'll be with you the whole time, surrounded by infected. What are you worried I'll do?"

Tommy sighs. He glances at Ellie who responds with a slight twitch of her shoulder. A shrug. He has a revolver and a 9mm strapped to his hip, along with a rifle over his shoulder. He draws the 9mm, checks the clip, and passes it to Mel. "Emergencies only. You stay with the group at all times."

Mel nods and fastens a bottle over the muzzle to act as a silencer.

"We've wasted enough time talking. Let's get a move on."

Mel takes a deep breath and tries to ignore her hammering heart as they approach the building. The eight of them move together in a tight knot that's less perfectly choreographed than what Mel's used to with the Wolves, but still effective. By unspoken agreement, Ellie takes point while Tommy watches their six. Mel flips the safety on her pistol and settles it in her hand. She hasn't fired a gun in months, and she's hoping she won't have to.

They make it to the emergency entrance without incident. Ellie pauses at the door in a half crouch, peers into the shadowed building, and shakes her head. She backs up, leans close to Tommy, and lowers her voice. "Too many. I'll sneak around to the south side and kick the anthill. See if I can draw them over there."

Seth's face tightens as if he's about to say something, but Tommy silences him with a raised hand. "Take backup. And be careful."

She nods and turns to Dina. "You got those charges?"

"Yeah."

The two detach from the group and start to creep around the side of the building. "Lot of trust to put in a teenage girl," Seth mutters.

Tommy glares at him. "She's the quickest and the quietest. And we ain't discussing it."

There's nothing to do but wait for a few minutes. That's the hardest part of any combat mission in Mel's experience - the waiting game. She notices Luke swallowing repeatedly. The kid keeps his gun aimed carefully at the asphalt, but his fingers drum restlessly on the grip. "We're gonna be fine," she tells him, too soft for Seth to hear, "The infected in there might be big and scary, but they don't feed much compared to the ones out here. They'll be disoriented. We can sneak right past them." She's not sure how much he registers, but he glances at her and nods gratefully.

When the boom of the explosion comes, Mel can't help but jump, even though she's expecting it. The sound rolls across two hundred yards of empty parking lots, echoed by screaming and clicking from the infected in the emergency room. She shields her eyes from the sun and sees Ellie and Dina rounding the building at a sprint. A few infected emerge from the building and stumble in their direction, but they're mostly not close enough to be a threat. Only one runner gets close enough for concern, and Jesse drops that one instantly with a bow shot.

The women are panting by the time they rejoin the group, but they keep quiet. Ellie peers into the lobby again, nods, and leads the way. Mel stays in the middle of the formation between Jesse and Seth as they move through the emergency room. Most of the infected have run off to investigate the explosion. The ones that remain are the ones in the worst shape: runners wasted to the point of being moving skeletons, standing and moaning in corners with no will to attack. They hardly seem to notice while Mel and the rest slip past the reception desk and through a set of swinging doors marked "Authorized Personnel Only." 

The hallway beyond is dark. Their flashlights bounce off of cracked tile and soak into piles of dirt and debris. After twenty paces or so, the corridor splits in three directions, presumably leading to exam rooms and offices and break rooms. Ellie hesitates, clearly unfamiliar with the hospital layout. Mel taps her on the shoulder and points to the right, where the building's architecture suggests there might be a staircase up against an exterior wall. Ellie nods and leads the way, but freezes at the next intersection. Soft moaning and clicking echoes down the hall. The girl peeks around the corner, looks back at Tommy, and holds up four fingers. Tommy nods. By pointing, he indicates himself, Ellie, Seth, and Jesse. He and Jesse pull out shivs while Ellie flips open her switch blade and Seth's hand tightens on a machete. Mel fades back against the wall with Dina and the others, to wait. Life as a medic tends to involve a lot of anxious waiting. At least she's used to it. She notices Daniel, Seth's older boy, putting a hand on Luke's shoulder.

Just a few seconds after the others round the corner, the infected let out a series of garbled cries, moans, and gurgling clicks. Death throes. Dina chances a look, then waves the rest of them forward. The other four rejoin them, wiping blood off on their sleeves or pant legs. They make good time down the corridor, before the dying infected can draw more down on them. At the end of the hallway, a steel door with a push bar gives way to a concrete stairwell. Mel shines her flashlight at a rusting sign on the wall.

_"First floor - Emergency, Pediatrics, Internal Medicine_

_Second floor - Surgery, MICU, SICU, Psychiatry_

_Third floor - Pathology, Morgue, Records"_

The second floor corridor is more of the same, but with more windows. A curling hallway to the left opens onto a number of private patient rooms built around a central nurse's station. There's one clicker stumbling past the information desk, but Ellie drops it with her bow. The eight of them descend on the nurse's station and tear it apart quietly and efficiently by rifling around in drawers and sifting through piles of paperwork. Luke is the one who finds the keys - more than a dozen of them on a burgundy lanyard - and Mel catches Seth's quick nod of approval. Dina points to the patients' rooms and raises an eyebrow in question, but Mel shakes her head. There won't be anything useful in there but bedpans and extra linens.

They move down the next hallway methodically, and the one after that and the one after that. There's no sign of infected. A storage closet yields their first good haul, and they all load their packs with rolls of gauze and rubbery bags of saline. Finally, by a sign marked _General Surgery_ , Tommy pauses. "I think we're good here. Keep your guard up, but the infected don' seem to be touching this floor much." He pauses. "We oughta divide and conquer. Mel, you need those surgical whatevers?"

"Yeah," she says softly, "Not much. A couple of scalpels, some retractors, suture . . . should be easy to find."

He looks at Dina. "You got it?"

"No problem," Dina says evenly, "I can get her in and out."

"Then, the rest of us ought to spread out and see if we can find those drug safes." They split into two groups, with Tommy, Jesse, and Ellie going one way and Seth and his boys going the other.

"Come on." Dina jerks her head. Mel follows her through a room of glinting steel cabinets and scrub sinks. She pauses to fish through some of the cabinets and drawers until she finds a pack of surgical instruments, wrapped in fading blue towels. This should have most of what she needs, but there's no sign of the scalpels or suture. Those will be in the operating rooms.

Up ahead, a red tape line on the floor marks the point beyond which only OR staff would be allowed. Mel is hit by the sudden, visceral memory of the gurney at St. Mary's rolling over just such a red line, carrying Jane Doe to the operating room. Jerry had been pushing the gurney himself, wearing an expression that mingled hope with deep, existential despair. Now, Dina steps over the tape, oblivious, and Mel follows.

A glass-fronted storage cabinet outside the first operating room holds boxes of suture packs and foil-wrapped scalpels. Mel tries the handle. It's locked. She looks at Dina. "Maybe one of Luke's keys will work for this?" The woman just smiles, pulls a brick from her pack, and smashes the glass. Mel tries not to flinch at the sound. "Well . . . or we could do that. That works too." She tugs her sleeve up over her hand to protect it from the glass and starts grabbing boxes - as many as she can carry. It's a lot more than they'll need to deal with Joel's leg, of course, but there's no knowing when some actual medical supplies might come in handy.

"That everything you need?"

"As far as instruments, yeah. There's still a lot more drugs we need to track down. The pharmacy is probably over by the ICU."

"Do you know where you're going?"

Mel shrugs and points to a plastic sign on the wall. _SICU, MICU, Pharmacy._

"Considerate of them."

The Jackson Medical Center isn't very big. Its pharmacy is a cramped room with cracked tile on the walls and floor, but the tall shelves are almost untouched by scavengers. Mel takes it in with deep satisfaction. There's no safe - controlled drugs must be kept elsewhere - but there's still plenty that they can use. "Grab as much as you can. Anything we don't need for Joel could still be useful for the rest of the town." Dina nods. By unspoken agreement, they start on opposite sides of the room, working their way towards the middle.

As soon as Dina is out of sight behind the shelves, Mel fishes a scalpel handle from the packs of instruments and carefully attaches a blade. It's not the best melee weapon in the world, but she feels better for having it. Turning her attention to the shelves, she starts grabbing bottles of pills and vials of injectable liquids. They're all expired by about twenty years, but better than nothing. Besides the obvious choices of antibiotics and anti-inflammatories, she's careful to grab drugs like antacids and beta blockers that might be useful for Jackson's population. If she collects enough of those sorts of general supplies, Tommy and Maria might not notice if she swipes a couple of things that _she_ needs. Like vitamins. They probably have their own section here, somewhere.

She rounds a corner into the next aisle and stops short because she's found what she's looking for, but Dina found it first. The younger woman has a large plastic bottle in her hand and is studying the label with an intent, troubled expression. The lettering is faded, but Mel can make out the word _Prenatal_ even from five paces away. She looks up at Mel and her face immediately turns guilty, then defensive.

Mel swallows as this new information clicks into place. Of course. All that ginger tea - good for nausea. Big breakfasts every morning, just like Mel herself has been having. The inexplicable way she seems to _glow_. She steps up beside her and looks from her face to the metal shelves. "Like I said: there's plenty here that'll be useful for the town."

Dina takes a sharp breath and tucks the bottle into her pack. "I didn't cheat on her, if that's what you're thinking."

Mel pulls an identical bottle from the shelf and adds it to her bag. "It's none of my business."

"We'd _just_ gotten together. The night before you people showed up."

Mel glances at her, surprised. "I wouldn't have known. You two seemed very close."

Dina shrugs. "We'd been dancing around each other for years. I always found an excuse not to make a move. The time was never quite right, until it was." She stares fixedly at the bottles. "And then," she says evenly, "Her whole world fell apart. She needed me. There wasn't really anything to discuss. I figured any issues we had, we'd work them out later. Once Joel was better."

"And now?" Mel asks quietly.

"I just don't want to lose her." Her fingers toy with the hem of her jacket. "I want things back like they were, but I know that's stupid."

"Have you told her? Or the father?"

She shakes her head. "She's got enough on her mind."

"You should tell her. If you're going to keep it." Dina says nothing. Mel studies the shelves for a moment. Carefully, she selects a pair of bottles marked "ferrous sulfate." She tucks one in her pack and holds out the other. "If you're going to keep it, you'll need iron supplements." Dina accepts it, still silent. "If not . . ." She picks up a smaller bottle and pauses a moment, reading the label. _Misoprostol._ "You've got a couple weeks to decide. Just let me know."

The sound of footsteps in the hall cuts off any reply Dina might have given. Mel stuffs the bottle in her pack and turns, drawing her gun. The door opens and it takes her a moment to recognize the face behind the gas mask. She holsters the gun. "Luke! What are you doing away from the group?"

He glances over his shoulder, then back at her. "I had an idea." He holds out a thick book. "Could this help you? With Joel, I mean?"

She takes it and brushes dust off the cover. _Zollinger's Atlas of Surgical Operations._ Shit, she hasn't seen one of these since Salt Lake City. It's probably worth more than all the drugs in this room put together. She's suddenly very glad that she agreed to come on this run. "Yeah. Where'd you find this?"

He points down the hallway. "Doctor's lounge. They had a bunch like that. There's more spores down that way, though."

Mel looks at Dina. "This could really help. A lot of Joel's issues are way beyond my training."

The other woman nods and pulls on her mask. "Quick and quiet."

Mel nods and follows the boy out and down the corridor. He pauses at an unmarked door and pushes it open, releasing a faint haze of spores that swirl around their masks' exhaust vents. Mel steps past him and takes in the small space. The far wall is almost completely obscured by spreading fans of Cordyceps hyphae. There must have been a body there once, but there's nothing left but the fungus and the powdered remains of the victim's bones. Mel's just thankful that he didn't die under the bookcase. She turns to it and shines her flashlight over the dusty spines. _Sabiston Textbook of Surgery._ A classic. She grabs that and a few other volumes that seem like they might be useful for figuring out skin flaps, then passes a few books on internal medicine to Dina and Luke. She'd like nothing more than to haul the whole collection out of here, but it's got to be three hundred pounds worth of books. She needs to be selective. 

The highest shelf contains what were clearly the lesser-used reference volumes from specialties treated as red-headed stepchildren. Mel climbs on a stool and runs a finger along the shelf, passing by books on podiatry and dermatology and psychiatry. There. _Techniques of Musculoskeletal Rehabilitation._ She grabs it. The next book is about occupational therapy, but the one after that is about dementia. She's getting warmer. And . . . jackpot. _Manual of Aphasia and Aphasia Therapy._ She adds it to her stack and turns to hop down.

She's so busy being pleased with herself that she doesn't notice she's losing her balance until it's too late. The stool tips to the side and she manages to jump, landing heavily on her feet, but the metal seat crashes to the ground with a loud clang that makes them all wince. They wait, frozen, for a moment. It's silent and Mel can almost let herself believe that her slip-up will go unpunished. Then, from down the hall, there's a thud. The shuffling of feet in an uneven gait. A faint clicking. She swallows and stuffs the books in her pack. She doesn't bother drawing her gun. If a stool falling is enough to draw clickers, a gunshot will bring the whole hospital population down on their heads. She reaches into her pocket and grips the handle of the scalpel.

Dina moves to the door, silently. She takes a quick peek out, then ducks back and holds up three fingers. Mel nods and moves to the other side of the door, pulling Luke with her. The footsteps are staggering closer. If they're lucky, the infected won't be able to echolocate to their precise location. The clickers might just pass them by.

Mel's luck has been pretty shit lately.

After a few seconds of anxious waiting, Mel can make out at least two different sets of footsteps. The nearest pauses, just outside their door. She meets Dina's gaze and grips her scalpel close to her shoulder. Dina's hand tightens on her shiv and she taps her own chest. On Mel's other side, Luke pulls out a shiv, too, but his hands are shaking.

The clicker crashes through the door with a thud that feels far too loud and swings its head from side to side, as if trying to see with its sightless eyes. It looks like it was once a woman. A few scraps of green fabric hang from its fungal-crusted shoulders. Scrubs. Before it's even a step through the door, Dina ducks in behind it and drives her shiv up into its neck at a sharp angle. It lets out a few gurgles and clicks, but it can't really scream. She's stabbed it through the vocal cords. She jumps back, wiping blood off of her gas mask. One down, but they all know they're not out of the woods yet.

Dina's shiv cracked it half against the clicker's jaw. She points at Luke and reaches a hand out for his, but he shakes his head. She glares for a moment, then draws her gun and twists on the silencer. Luke moves to the other side of the door, where he can ambush the next one. He's trying to be a good soldier, like his dad would want.

More footsteps. From the irregular rhythm, Mel can tell that it's two of them bunched together. She swallows a curse. Luke's breath is rasping through his gas mask. Loud. Too loud.

The door swings open and another clicker pushes through, this one male and completely naked, with a third one right on its heels. Luke hesitates just a half second, and that's enough time for the first one to swing around and lunge at him. Battlefield instinct takes over and Mel springs in behind it and stabs with her scalpel, aiming for the carotid artery. She knows she's found it when wet heat splashes over her hand. The clicker screams and flails and she's forced to let go, leaving the scalpel lodged in its throat. Luke barely jumps out of the way as it sinks to the floor. Yellow nails claw at her shoulder and Mel twists away from the last one's grasping arms. She draws her gun and pistol whips it across the face, then calls herself twelve kinds of idiot when her silencer shatters. 

She hears the scrabble of feet and then Dina's voice. "For fuck's sake, just give me the shiv!" Luke stumbles back and falls to the ground, but before Dina can do anything, the clicker has Mel by the hood of her jacket and it's dragging her in. She has to risk a shot, even if it draws more of them. She tries to swing her arm around, but it's already snapping at her.

The sudden BANG, BANG catches her off-guard. For a moment, she thinks she's had an accidental discharge - a major fuck-up on her part. Then, the clicker groans and drops to the ground with two smoking holes in its forehead. Mel spins and sees Luke, still flat on his ass but with his pistol in his hand, smoking. His eyes are wide and horrified. From down the hall, they hear more clicking and the roar of a bloater.

"Shit!" Dina snaps, "C'mon. We gotta move." She grabs the boy by the arm and hauls him to his feet. 

Mel peeks out into the corridor. "Clear, for the moment, but we'll have to run for it."

Luke's face is bloodless, but he reaches for Mel as Dina hustles him past. "I'm sorry!"

She shakes her head. "Hey! You saved my life. We've got this."

There's no more time to talk. They sprint back towards the stairwell, ripping off their gas masks as they go. Mel's pack thuds into her lower back with every step, raising bruises. She grips her gun so tight it's probably leaving indentations in her skin. Up ahead, there's a light _slap_ of rubber soles over tile - their only warning before Ellie rounds the corner at a run. "Fuckin' hell!"

"We're okay," Dina pants, "Gotta go!"

The girl has her shotgun already in her hands. She waves the three of them past and falls in behind them. Up ahead, Tommy and Jesse round the corner just as Daniel and Seth emerge from the opposite direction. In spite of everything, some part of Mel's brain registers that their packs are bulging. Hell, Jesse even has a small oxygen tank in his arms. They found what they were looking for. "What the fuck?" Seth barks. His face is equal parts furious and terrified.

"Couple of clickers," Dina says shortly.

Tommy's expression is so similar that they might as well be twins. "So, what, you decide to light 'em up?"

Seth grabs Luke, and for a moment, the boy looks as scared of his father as he had been of the infected. Mel abruptly decides to do something about it. "Sorry," she tells Tommy shortly, "I panicked." Her broken silencer is proof enough. His face turns stormy, but there's no time to bicker about it. The screams and clicks are getting closer. Mel takes the oxygen tank from Jesse so that he can draw his gun. They race through the hallways and down the stairs, falling into loose formation as they do so. 

The infected are already reaching the ER by the time they make it to the ground floor. The time for stealth is clearly over. Ellie and Jesse clear the way with shotgun blasts while Tommy snipes off clickers where he can and the rest of them try to bring the survivors down with their handguns. Back in the middle of the formation, Mel keeps her head down and just focuses on running and not dropping the tank. Somehow, they reach the glass doors before the bulk of the infected are on them. Mel slips in the gore from one of Ellie's victims, but manages not to fall.

Outside, the parking lot is soaked in sunlight, but it's only the illusion of safety. Infected are emerging from the building like bees from a disrupted hive. They abandon shooting and run for the truck. Mel is gasping for breath before they're halfway there. Her pack thuds into her tailbone and her boots slip on the loose gravel. Ellie pulls away from the pack, hauling Dina with her and all but flinging her into the bed of the truck. Luke is in next, with Seth and Daniel close behind him.

Mel's only a few paces away when the cramp hits, stopping her in her tracks and doubling her over. The tank clangs to the ground. She has just a moment to clutch her abdomen in horror before Tommy grabs the oxygen with one hand and her shoulder with the other, dragging her along. "C'mon. Ain't the time." He shoves her into the cab of the truck, hops into the driver's seat, and has it moving in seconds.

As they leave the parking lot behind and roll onto the abandoned road, Mel bends over, gripping her belly and wishing she was still the praying type. And the cramp . . . relaxes. After a moment, she just feels the normal burn in her chest from overexertion, accompanied by the biting nausea that always follows adrenaline. She pants, but recognizes the cramp for what it was: panic. Adrenaline. She hopes. Her fingers tighten over her abdomen and . . . there. For the first time, she notices a tiny flutter from somewhere near her bladder. Movement that didn't come from her. _"We're okay,"_ she whispers. They're okay.

Beside her, Tommy's breaths are coming raggedly. "The fuck were you thinking?" he says after a moment, "You _knew_ firing would bring the horde down on us."

Mel just shrugs.

"A Wolf should've known better. Aren't you people supposed to be some kind of army?"

Mel leans back and closes her eyes. "Yeah," she breathes.

He glances at her, then away, and seems to check himself. "What the hell were you doing so far away from the group, anyway? You were supposed to grab your surgery shit and get out."

"Luke's idea," she says when she's sure she can talk again. She unzips her pack and pulls out the first book she touches. It happens to be one on wound management. "I needed this. For Joel's surgery."

He glances at the book, then back at the road, scowling. "Fat lot of good it would have done us if you'd all gotten nipped by clickers."

"Yeah."

He sighs. "Alright. Give me the gun."

She'd almost forgotten she still has it. Mel woodenly pulls the 9mm from her waistband and drops it into Tommy's outstretched hand. He removes the clip, pauses, then empties the chamber. He glances from her, to the road, to the gun, and back. "Full clip," he says after a moment.

Mel leans back, still rubbing over her belly. The clicker's blood is starting to crust and harden over her hand. "Yeah."

He scowls. "What the fuck? Why lie about that? Just force of habit?"

Mel glances in the rearview mirror, seeing the rest of the group as silhouettes. Ellie and Dina sit, shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed, fingers tightly interwoven. Seth has his arm around Luke and is running a hand through his hair, checking over and over again if he's in one piece. She runs her thumb slowly over her belly. _We're okay._ "Sure," she tells Tommy, "Don't worry about it."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

With his rubber mattress laid out on the kitchen island, Joel looks thoroughly out of place and not a little nervous. No matter. The kitchen has the best light in the house, and Mel absolutely needs to be able to see what she's doing. Time and scar tissue have reduced the wound on his leg from a grapefruit-sized crater to a shallow, pink-lined indentation a little smaller than a plum. The skin at the edge is gnarled and white from trying to contract down, but it's clearly reached the limit of what it can heal naturally. Careful to touch his skin only with the marker, Mel draws two curving lines rotating outward. The wound ends up looking like the eye of a hurricane. She looks up at Joel to make sure he's following her. "The scar will end up looking like an 'S.' I'll have to cut under the skin until I can lift up these two flaps." She indicates the wave-like curls of skin. "Then I'll pull those inward, stitch them together to close over the wound, and stretch the skin out here until I can close the incisions."

She looks at Joel again, but any questions he might have asked get cut off by Tommy. "And after the surgery?"

Mel directs her response to her patient, not his brother. "Your leg will be sore. The skin will feel very stretched. It'll be important not to put any extra pressure on the incisions."

Joel opens his mouth, but Tommy's hand tightens on his shoulder. "I thought the splint would take care of that?"

"It'll help." She holds Joel's gaze. "But, you'll still need to be careful."

He nods, looks over at Ellie, and reaches out his hand. She passes him the communication boards, but before he can use them, Tommy is speaking again. "What happens if you fuck it up?"

Joel shoots him a look of annoyance that Tommy never sees. Mel feels her ire rise too, but she presses it down. It's a fair question. "There's always a risk the surgery could fail. If the sutures pop after surgery, it's just a question of how much it comes apart. A small enough wound will scar in on its own. A big one could lead to losing more skin. It might even make it impossible to close."

Joel's brow furrows. Tommy's jaw clenches. "The fuck do you mean, _impossible_? It can't just stay open forever."

"No. It can't."

Ellie leans forward. "She's saying she might have to amputate. After everything."

Mel sighs. "There's a chance. A small one. Which, given what the leg looked like a couple months ago, is pretty close to a miracle." She looks at Joel. "I think this is our best chance. But, ultimately, it's your decision."

"Now, hold up a minute . . ."

"Tommy," Ellie says sharply, "Let him decide."

Tommy falls silent, though Mel can tell from his face that it's taking effort to stay that way. Joel looks at Mel, flips through the notebook for a minute, then gives up and closes it. He walks two fingers over the paper, then looks up at Mel with a question in his eyes. 

"Walk?" she interprets.

He nods, flips the book open, and points to a question mark.

"Will you be able to walk after the surgery?"

Another nod.

Mel purses her lips. "Eventually . . . we hope. Right now, the bone is still healing, and there's no knowing if you've got enough ligaments left for a stable knee. But, once your sutures come out, we can get you in a cast to keep it protected. We can probably try crutches at that point."

He flips to a page for simple questions and points to a box labeled _"When?"_ and illustrated with a question mark and a clock with a broken face.

"If all goes well, fourteen days until the sutures come out. Then it's just a question of when you've built up enough muscle to manage the crutches without falling."

He nods once to show that he's understood, then looks down. His mouth opens and closes - a surefire sign that he's searching for the right words. Tommy's self-control breaks before he finds them. "We don' have to do this now," he says softly, "We can give it more time, let your leg scar some on its own." At least he addresses his words to Joel, even if his tone is that of an adult trying to comfort a scared child.

Mel keeps her face direct. "The more we delay, the greater the risk of another infection. And with all the antibiotics you've been on, this one would probably be resistant. Untreatable."

Joel glances from her face to Tommy's to Ellie's. He coughs once to clear his throat. "Do it," he says finally, his voice raspy and forced but clear enough.

Mel nods. "Okay." She stands and draws up a dose of sedatives. Joel immediately grunts an objection and shakes his head. She smiles grimly. "Sorry. If you want the surgery, the sedative is non-negotiable."

He growls and points to a bottle of lidocaine on the counter. Apparently, he's able to read the label from across the room, remember what that particular medication is for, and bring it up as a counterargument. Mel is impressed, despite herself. "The local anesthetic will help with post-op pain, but it's not enough for the whole surgery. I'm going to be doing way too much delicate suturing - you don't want me to screw that up."

He glowers for a moment longer, then sighs, nods, and turns his hand, offering her the IV in his elbow. She wipes it carefully with alcohol and flushes it with saline. "Look on the bright side," she says, making herself smile, "If this works, this might be the last time you have to go under."

He snorts softly. She drops her hand onto his and squeezes gently as she pushes the sedative. His eyelids start to flutter. Ellie grips his other hand. "It's okay. We'll be here the whole time."

Tommy nods. "We ain't gonna let her screw it up."

Mel gives the sedative a minute or so to work, then checks Joel's reflexes. His eyelids are still half cracked, but he doesn't blink even when she touches the corner of his eye. His chest rises and falls steadily. His eyes are rolling back in his head. She looks at Tommy. "Pass me that oxygen mask." He grabs a plastic mask, uncoils the tubing, and adjusts a valve on the green tank they looted from the hospital. Mel presses the mask over Joel's face and looks up at Tommy with a sardonic smile. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, by the way."

He shrugs, his face defensive but not quite unapologetic. Mel puts it out of her mind and focuses on injecting the lidocaine with a long needle. When she's pretty sure the knee is numb, she turns, scrubs her hands with disinfectant, and pulls on a pair of surgical gloves. The hospital supplies are wrapped in plastic turned yellow and rubbery by time, but all the same, it's good to be working with real medical supplies again. It's comforting. She drapes Joel's leg with sterile blue towels and looks at Tommy. "You're in charge of the sedation. Check his pulse and breathing every five minutes and write them down. Let me know if he starts flinching or reacting in any way."

Tommy nods shortly. Ellie might have been a more reliable choice for that job, but Mel could end up needing her hands. Besides, having something to focus on might distract Tommy from finding things to criticize. Mel has enough to worry about as it is. One more time, she glances at the open textbook on the counter, running through the steps in her mind. Keeping her face carefully neutral and professional, she nods to Ellie. "The scalpel blade. Peel the foil open but don't touch the blade. Like I showed you." She does, and Mel carefully takes the blade with a pair of hemostats and attaches it to her scalpel handle.

Breathing slowly, to keep her nerves under control, Mel makes two deep, smooth cuts, one along each of the dotted lines. Blood wells up and starts to trickle down Joel's leg, but he doesn't react. Next, Mel grips the scarred edge of the wound with a pair of forceps and cuts carefully around its circumference, trimming away a few millimeters of scar tissue to expose the healthy, bleeding edges. Tommy grunts. "You done this before?"

Mel takes a pair of blunt-tipped scissors and forces them between the skin and underlying muscle, feeling for the right plane of dissection. When she finds it, she opens the scissors, spreading the blades and peeling the skin up from its attachments. Tommy and Ellie both wince. "Closed chronic wounds over a flap? Yes. Closed one of this particular size in this location with this type of flap? No. But, the principles are the same."

Tommy lays two fingers over the pulse in Joel's neck. "I don't like this. Doing a surgery for the first time out of a book? Feels like you're in over your head."

Mel refrains from pointing out that there's a bit of a shortage of formally-trained surgeons in the world. "There are risks," she says instead, "But this is his best shot at recovery. I went over all of this with Joel, twice. He agreed to try it."

"If you call grunting and nodding _agreeing_."

Mel focuses on carefully lifting and mobilizing the two skin flaps. "He's not an idiot, you know." She glances at Tommy. "The head injury took away his ability to speak but not to understand. Not to reason. He can make his own decisions, and he wants this surgery."

Tommy's eyes harden. "The fuck do you know about it? You didn't even know him before your little friend beat his skull in, and somehow you're the expert on what he wants?"

Ellie glares at him. "Tommy. _Not_ the time."

Tommy bites his tongue. So does Mel. She finishes freeing the skin flaps and turns her attention to undermining the surrounding skin. "Why don't you tell me about him, then? What was he like before the injury?"

Tommy hesitates, then softens a little, as she'd hoped he would. He touches Joel's forehead and snorts. "Like a border collie. He always had to be doing something, or he'd go crazy." He glances at Ellie, then back down at Joel. "Back before the outbreak, he'd pick up every job or side hustle he could. Probably worked eighty hours a week, and then he'd squeeze in night school and soccer practice and parent-teacher conferences. I don't think the man slept more than four hours a night after his kid was born."

Mel stretches the skin, testing it. It has just about enough slack to start closing. She brings the triangular edges towards the center of the wound, loads a needle on her instrument, and places a stitch that holds the tips of the flaps together.

"Changed after the outbreak, naturally." The warm nostalgia is rapidly fading from Tommy's face. "He still never let up, but it wasn't about improving himself anymore. He was jus' working so he didn't have to think." He shakes his head. "I tapped out years back. Figured within two years he'd either be dead or king of his own little criminal empire."

"It was tough in Boston." Ellie's voice is unmistakably defensive. "Everybody was just barely holding on. Joel included."

"I know," Tommy says wearily, "Don't matter, anyhow. He was a different person when he settled here."

With the ends of the flaps sutured together, what's left is a pair of bloody crescents - a rough S-shape. Mel buries a few sutures under the skin, trying to relieve tension and bring the wound edges together. "Different how?"

"Softer. Less broken." After a few seconds, Tommy forces a smile and the moment passes. "'Course, he still didn't know what to do with himself for a while. Four walls and a warm bed at night? Shit, he hadn't had that since Austin."

Ellie's face is softening a little. "Those first few weeks, he picked up like a million extra shifts. Patrols, guarding the walls, shoveling shit in the stables . . . Made me feel like the biggest slacker in the world."

"That's why I finally got him those woodworking tools. Figured he needed something to pour his energy into. And then he churned out, like, twelve little statue things in a month."

"He was obsessed," Ellie confirms, "I'd catch him whittling at the kitchen table, most mornings. There'd be wood shavings in his eggs."

Tommy laughs quietly. "Y'know . . . back before the outbreak, he used to make fun of people like that - the kind that buried themselves in hobbies. He said if he ever got to retire, he was gonna sit on his porch sippin' Bud and strumming on his guitar and not move until somebody came up and poked him. And then he got his chance and he couldn't stand it! If he wasn't working, he'd be fiddling on some kind of new project. Carving. Refurbishing guitars. He even went through a poetry phase."

"No fucking way! How'd I miss the poetry phase?"

"Well . . . you weren't speaking with him at the time."

Ellie falters, but recovers quickly. "Was it sappy? Please tell me it was _ridiculously_ sappy."

"Sappy like you wouldn't believe."

Mel lets them reminisce, just listening in silence while suturing steadily. She tries to picture Joel the way they do - as a benign empty-nester, burying himself in new hobbies and interests. As someone _less broken_. That's easier than thinking about what it cost to _unbreak_ him. She ties the next skin suture a little too tight, leaving white indentations where it's digging into his skin. She sighs in frustration, cuts the suture, and starts over. She can almost hear Jerry's voice in her ear, saying _"careful, not too tight, you don't want to risk necrosis."_

What _would_ Jerry think of how she's been living these past few months? He'd have wanted her to protect Abby - that much goes without saying. And, he wouldn't have cared if doing that meant letting his murderer live. What about the rest of it, though? It's one thing to treat a patient - to behave competently and professionally to keep them alive. It's another matter entirely to start to concern oneself with a patient's hopes and dreams and emotional wellbeing. Would Jerry have seen this as a betrayal of him? Or of the Firefly cause? He wouldn't have given up the fight - she's sure of that much. If Joel had taken Ellie and left him alive, he would have spent a day mourning what could have been, and then he'd have picked himself up and said _"we'll find another way."_ He might even have been relieved to have that awful weight off of his conscience. But, of course, he never got that chance.

Her hands are starting to shake. She swallows and tries to get a grip. Jerry wouldn't have wanted her to hold a grudge - she's pretty sure about that. He'd have told her to focus on the big picture.

The wound is coming together. She places one more suture, apposing the skin edges, and checks the flap for tension. Perfect. She leans back and admires her work - the cratered flesh now covered by skin closed in a sinuous line, the rows of even sutures like railroad tracks. Well, she's sure of one thing: Jerry would be proud of her for the way she's managed this wound. A point-blank shotgun blast to an extremity , closed in under three months. This is her fucking magnum opus.

She wipes a trickle of blood from the finished product and covers it with a square of twenty-five year old gauze. She realizes abruptly that she's lost the flow of the conversation. Tommy is still reminiscing, oblivious to her personal angst.

". . . 'An anyone could've told him that was never gonna work, but there's no convincin' Joel once he sets his mind to something. Stubborn as a team of mules."

Mel shakes herself, reaches for the bandage material, and nudges Ellie to lift Joel's leg. "The stubbornness is a good thing," she says, hoping her voice sounds normal, "Rehab's only about one part medicine to ten parts determination." Now that the wound is closed, the bandage doesn't have to be nearly as bulky. She wraps his leg just enough to keep the skin from chafing, then straps the splint back in place. Joel is still out but breathing steadily. Mel glances over at Tommy's anesthesia notes and finds them impeccable. 

"So . . . is that it?" Ellie asks cautiously, "It worked?"

Mel shakes her head. "Only time will tell. It all came together okay. The stitches _should_ hold. All that's left is to wait and see."

She snaps her gloves off and turns away to hide her expression. In spite of everything, in spite of how much could still go wrong, the principal emotion that washes over her is peace. She's done the best she can. She hears Jerry's voice in her ear again. _"You give your patient every possible chance. And when there's nothing left to do, you give them time and wait for them to heal."_ There's nothing left to do now but give it time and hope that Joel can heal. And to hope that, in time, she can, too.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to all my readers and reviewers. Feedback is very much appreciated! The next chapter is in the editing phase and should be up in a week or so.
> 
> For anyone curious about the surgery Mel performs, feel free to check out this article: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3800294/ (warning: graphic images)


	9. Exercises in Empathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Joel slowly starts to regain his voice, Mel receives news from Seattle.

Mel sits and spreads out her tools on the dining room table across from Joel - paper and pen, a slate and chalk, a thick notepad of communication boards. They've done almost three hours of speech therapy today, but Joel wants to get in one more session before bed. He's been relentless about it, and the progress is starting to show. 

Mel looks at Joel. "Are you thirsty?"

He hesitates - still uncomfortable about asking for anything - but nods. She arches an eyebrow and waits. His brow furrows. His lips purse. "Yuh . . . yeah."

She nods and stands. "Water or juice?"

"Water."

She pours a glass from the pitcher on the side board and hands it to him. He stares at it for a moment, his mouth working. "Grateful," he says finally.

"Close. 'Thank you.'"

"For . . . for what?"

She smiles as she sits. Humor is progress, even if it's just a shield for his vulnerabilities. "Let's warm up."

He rolls his eyes and snorts derisively.

"I know, it feels childish and dumb, but it's important. The more you get down the letters and sounds, the easier it'll be to turn them into words." She pauses. "A, B . . ."

He gives her a look of deep skepticism.

"If you can't say it, we'll have to try singing it," she threatens.

He sighs. "-C."

"D, E . . ."

"-F."

"G, H . . ."

"-I."

"J, K . . ."

He hesitates, losing the rhythm. "Ell."

She pushes on as if she didn't notice. "M, N, O . . ."

"-P."

They finish the alphabet without further incident, then get through a few simple drills with consonant and vowel sounds. Joel's got to be tired - hell, Mel is tired, and she's not the one trying to rewire her brain - but he sticks to it doggedly. She tucks her hair behind her ears. "Okay. Let's do some fill-in-the-blanks." She doesn't reach for the communication boards yet. He's gotten better about not needing them. "I stepped out of my house and onto the . . ."

"-puh . . . porch."

"I stepped off the porch and walked down the . . ."

"-street."

"I went to the stables to get my . . ."

His mouth opens, then closes. Frustration flickers across his face. She gives him a minute, but he's stuck. "It's a kind of animal. Has four legs." The cuing irritates him, but it does help sometimes. "Starts with an H. Huh . . ." 

He turns his head away and grimaces. She grabs the notebook and starts to flip to the page with the horse, but he shakes his head. "Horse," he says finally.

Her only response is a nod. He hates positive reinforcement. "I wanted to go for a ride, but first the horse needed a . . ."

"-saddle."

The front door opens, drawing Joel's attention and sparing Mel from having to invent somewhere for the horse to go. "Hey!" Ellie walks in carrying a few canvas sacks. Grocery bags. "They're out of sugar again, but I got a little bit of honey." She drops the bags off in the kitchen and enters the dining room. "I've got the early patrol tomorrow, so I've gotta be up at the ass crack of dawn. Dina will be around if you need anything."

Joel's face always softens when she's in the room. He's watching her intently. "Tommy?" he asks finally.

"Yeah, they're partnering me with him for now. Until you're back on your feet."

He snorts. "R . . . route?"

"Your old stomping ground. The ski resort. The last of the winter hordes have moved on, so we've gotta start clearing out stragglers."

He swallows. "Careful."

"I will be. Shoot the clickers, avoid the bears, don't talk to strangers. Easy peasy."

A half smile tugs at his lips. "I guess."

She steps closer and props a hip on the edge of the table. "What are you working on?"

He rolls his eyes. "Horses. Porches. ABCs."

"More fill-in-the-blank stuff, mostly," Mel interjects. Ellie hasn't quite gotten over her habit of ignoring Mel except when absolutely necessary. It's good for Joel's communication practice, but gets a little grating over time. The girl shrugs. "Might help if you did a couple of these," Mel tells her, "I can make up scenarios and work on common words, but we need to start working on words with more emotional resonance."

Ellie snorts, but there's a guarded look to her face. "Yeah . . . good luck with that. I've been trying to get Joel to talk about his feelings for five years. Progress has been roughly zilch." She looks down, then away at the wall. Anywhere besides Joel's face. He's not smiling. There's something deep and hurting in his expression. Mel sits back and waits her out. After a moment, Ellie sighs and nudges Joel's wheelchair. "Scootch." He makes room. She pulls out the chair beside him, sits down, and stares at the tabletop. Mel stands and busies herself with straightening up, organizing her supplies and taking the juice and water pitchers back to the kitchen. All the same, she hears every word.

"For my birthday, we went to the . . ."

"-museum." His voice is soft. Hers is steady and controlled.

"I climbed on a . . ."

"-dinosaur."

"We went inside and found a . . ." She gestures to her head.

"-huh . . . hat."

"And I put the hat on the . . ."

"-dinosaurs." His breath huffs out. "All . . . dinosaurs."

There's a half smile tugging at her cheek, but she seems conflicted. "We went upstairs and walked through . . ."

"-space."

"And then I took a ride in a . . ."

"-r . . . rocket ship."

Mel leans against the doorframe and watches them. Joel is smiling tenderly, but Ellie is staring down at the table again. "I . . . I went and jumped in the . . ."

Joel sighs. His face becomes solemn. "-water."

"And we swam across the . . ."

"-river."

Ellie is twisting her fingers together. "On the other side, we found the . . ."

Joel pauses for long moments. At first, Mel thinks he's stuck, but his expression isn't showing the usual frustration that accompanies those moments. He looks away. "-Firefly."

"You . . ."

"-lied."

They both fall silent. After a moment, Joel reaches out and rests his hand gently on Ellie's. She lets him do it for a few moments, then pulls away and stands. "Yeah, you'll be reciting sonnets in no time." Her shoulders shift. "Anyway, I've gotta get some shut eye."

He looks up at her. "Ell . . ."

"I'll see you tomorrow. After patrol." She turns and thuds up the stairs to the room she shares with Dina. In her wake, Joel's shoulders slump.

Mel cautiously collects the rest of her supplies, mulling over the exchange. If Ellie isn't willing to give Joel a pass over . . . whatever that was, then there's a good chance Mel shouldn't either. She leans against the wall for a moment and folds her arms. "You're making progress." She looks down at him. "What did you lie about?"

He looks away, his face hardening. She purses her lips. "This is the next step in therapy: open-ended questions. Abstract ideas. You want to start saying what you mean, now's the time."

His jaw clenches. His brow furrows. By now, Mel knows the difference between when he _can't_ answer and when he just doesn't want to. She waits him out. "Salt," he says finally, "Salt . . . water . . . no . . ."

"Lake?"

He nods.

"Salt Lake City."

He nods again, grimly. She looks away. She thought that might be it. "What did you tell her?"

He grimaces. It's a harder language challenge, yes, but he also doesn't want to talk about it. She waits. After a moment, though, he shakes his head and looks away. Her lips tighten. "You're not even going to try to talk about it?"

He feels the hostility in her voice and reacts in kind. He glares for a moment, flips her the bird, and then turns his wheelchair and rolls back towards the living room and his improvised sleeping quarters. Mel closes her eyes and hisses in frustration. She gives him a minute or two, then follows him into the room. "You know, storming off doesn't really work when you can't get yourself in or out of bed on your own."

He can only grunt, but he manages to make it sound annoyed. He rolls his chair toward the bed and jerks his head. She folds her arms and arches an eyebrow. "Oh, now you want my help? A minute ago, you wanted nothing to do with me."

He turns to face her fully and scowls. "You . . . you done?"

The resignation in his voice drives out most of her petty ire. She sighs and approaches him. "Yeah." With the ease and lack of embarrassment that comes from long familiarity, she gets him out of his gown and into a fresh one and then lifts him into bed. He tries to take too much weight on his good leg to take the weight off her. It makes the whole process more clumsy and awkward than it needs to be, and he's done that every time she's had to lift him, ever since he found out about the pregnancy. It might be endearing if it weren't so frustrating. She rounds the bed and tugs the draw sheet, settling him on the middle of the mattress. He automatically rolls to the side so that she can remove the sheet. His face is grim. Stoic. Mel grits her teeth and mentally castigates herself. She knows just how hard it is for Joel to accept help with these simple, stupid day-to-day things. She shouldn't have lorded that over him, regardless of what she might be feeling.

"Sorry," she says after an awkward moment, "I shouldn't have lashed out. It's not you I'm mad at, if I'm being honest."

Joel hears her change in tone. His face softens. "What?" he says. It's the closest he can get to something like "go on."

Mel stares across the room at the window, still boarded up with plywood more than two weeks later. The real source of her anger, she knows. She shrugs and shakes her head. "My best friend came to Jackson. Risked her life to sneak into the city, in fact. Only it turns out, she cares a lot more about _you_ than she does about me."

She half expects Joel to turn angry at the mention of Abby - it'd be hard to argue that he isn't justified. After a moment, though, his face softens. He shakes his head. His lips tighten as he searches for the right word. "Protect," he says finally. He points a finger at Mel. "Yuh . . . you. Protect you."

Mel's eyebrows lift. "You were trying to protect me?"

He shakes his head sharply and gestures, first at the darkened doorway, then at the boarded-up window. "Abby," he says after a long moment of searching.

"You think _Abby_ was trying to protect me?"

He nods and lays his left hand on her arm. His right he lifts and extends, pointing toward the door with a finger and raised thumb, a pantomime of a handgun. "Tommy," he says simply. His thumb twitches, simulating a gunshot. His arm shifts a little to the right, trembling from the effort. His face tightens. "Ellie." Another trigger pull. He bends his elbow and points his index finger next at his own temple. "Me." The next twitch of his thumb is accompanied by a jerk of the head so realistic it makes Mel wince. Joel holds her gaze. "But." He lifts his hand towards the doorway again, finger extended. "You." He drops his hand after a moment and shrugs. "Protect," he says simply.

She chews on that for a moment. "You think that's why she left you alive?"

He nods. It makes sense, if she can look past her simmering resentment. Abby's not one to leave a job unfinished, nor does she often give up, even when cornered. Mel had been sure, when they finally broke the door down, that it would open on Joel's dead body.

Still. It doesn't change anything. She looks away to hide her expression until she can force a smile. "Pretty good," she says, striving for a normal tone, "Abstract ideas. Open-ended conversation. You're getting there."

From his face, he knows that she's deflecting. He sighs and lets it go and she makes her excuses shortly afterwards.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

It's past midnight, but Joel's not ready to sleep just yet. His eye sockets feel gritty, but his leg aches and his stomach is roiling with nausea. He feels simultaneously foggy and jittery. Mel's been weaning him off the pain medication, and so far as he knows, these are the normal side effects. It's a small price to pay for the chance to be rid of that hazy, helpless feeling the "good stuff" leaves him with. It does make it harder to get to sleep, though.

He flips the page on an old Western novel and adjusts his reading glasses. Ever since the injury, they don't quite work as well as they used to; his left eye stays a little bit blurry. It'll give him a headache if he keeps at it long enough, but these days anything can give him a headache.

The house is quiet. The girls have all gone to bed - Ellie, Dina, Mel. The porch lights are still on, though. Now that the weather's a bit warmer, Tommy stays out there and has a nightcap most evenings. Joel reaches the end of a chapter and pauses. He ought to at least try to sleep . . . He starts the next chapter anyway. Another fifteen minutes won't kill him. Just until Tommy goes to bed.

Faintly from outside, he hears the sudden creak of feet on the stairs, then Tommy's voice. "Maria!" He pauses. "This ain't a social visit, is it?"

"I wish," Maria says briskly, "We've had some news from that trader group that came through tonight. About Seattle."

Joel sits up and sets the book on the side table. Outside, Tommy responds, but in a tone too low for Joel to make out. He can easily picture his brother glancing back at the living room windows, worrying that Joel might overhear, worrying that he won't be able to handle it. Maria responds, just as quietly. 

Joel's jaw tightens. He's getting very tired of being treated like an invalid, even if he does fit the textbook definition of the word. His wheelchair is still sitting next to the bed, within arm's reach. He considers for a minute, then shakes off his misgivings. His splinted leg is a lot easier to manipulate, now that the bulky wound dressings are gone. It's been almost ten days since the surgery - if his stitches were gonna pop, they'd have done it by now. 

He tugs the chair close and swings his good leg down off the bed. He's been working on strengthening exercises, in hopes of graduating to crutches. So far, his attempts have been pretty undignified and have mostly involved him trying to balance on one leg for ten seconds, while Ellie holds him up on one side and Mel on the other, but he's reasonably confident that he can do this without killing himself. He grips the edge of the bed and swings his weight down before he can talk himself out of it. His good knee buckles immediately and he thuds into the pleather seat. The chair rocks to the side and almost tips over, but he manages to right it in time. His arm aches sharply where he had to catch himself, but he doesn't feel anything give. 

All in all, he's feeling grim but accomplished as he hauls his bad leg up onto the footrest and settles his hands on the chair's wheels. His right arm is still pretty weak, but he can manage. It's only a little ways to the living room door, and then a bit of careful maneuvering to turn towards the porch. He focuses on the mechanics of it - on the careful tactics of getting his broken, contrary body to go where he wants. It provides a decent distraction from wondering what's being said out on that porch.

He pulls the front door open and finds Tommy and Maria with their heads bent close together. They both turn to look at him. For once, he's the first to find his voice. "What?"

Some unspoken communication passes between them. Tommy's face is anxious and frustrated. Maria's is resolute. She's the one who responds. "A couple of traders came to town tonight, from the west coast. Seattle. They had some news about the group that attacked you. Don't know if I'd call it _good_ news, but I sure as hell won't be shedding any tears."

Joel waits for her to continue, but Tommy ends up speaking next. "Word is, they got wiped out."

Joel's eyebrows shoot up. He wets his lips. "They . . . ?"

"The WLF," Maria says, "We've been letting Mel exchange letters with them. Keeping tabs. Only, according to these traders, the whole paramilitary force got dragged into a conflict with the other local faction. They tried some kind of sneak attack and it all went belly-up. Wiped out most of both groups, and what was left of the Wolves either disbanded or packed up and left."

Joel rocks back. It's a familiar story - those kinds of groups are wiping each other out all the time. All the same, it rattles him. Mel. She's gonna be devastated.

Tommy sees the disquiet on his face and misinterprets it. "There's nothing confirmed on those three assholes that attacked you," he says, "But, from talking to the girl, it sounds like they were high up in their special forces. They'd have been on the front lines of this raid. Odds are, we don't have to worry about them anymore."

Joel nods and looks away, thinking of the surviving Wolves. His memories of the ambush are disjointed - like a horror movie shot on a hand-held camera - but he's heard enough about the survivors over the past weeks that he's pretty sure he can put faces to names. Manny must be the asshole with the beard - the one who kept snarling abuse in Spanish, apparently not realizing that Joel's grasp of Spanish cuss words is pretty good. Then there's Owen - Mel's beau, the father of her child. He'd be the one playing the soldier, shoving his gun in Joel's face. Joel has a vague memory of the boy backing away and looking sick when the pain started - when it became clear how this was gonna go. He's not sure, though, whether that was real or just him projecting his own horror onto someone else's face.

And then, of course, there's Abby. The broken girl, swinging her club like she was tilting at windmills. All the while looking like a trapped animal - like _she_ was the one with her back against the wall.

Hesitantly, he touches the last memory he has from that place - those final moments before everything went dark and he woke up a month later. He remembers the pain fading, to the point where it ceased to matter. The deep sense of _peace_ that followed. The certainty that it was all out of his hands, now - that, somehow, everything was playing out the way it was supposed to, and he could just let go. He tries his best not to think about those moments, now. He's worried he'll miss them - worried he'll want that sense of _completion_ back, even if it costs him everything.

Still. If that's what death is, then it's a far cry from the horrors that he imagined all those sleepless decades - all those nights when he lay awake, replaying Sarah's last gargling breaths. It's a comfort, almost. Oddly, he doesn't feel much animus toward the Wolves, despite how badly they've fucked everything up for him and his. Maybe that's just the brain damage talking, but . . . still. He finds himself vaguely wondering whether any of them felt that rush of serenity at the end. He hopes so, for Abby, especially. That girl looked like she'd never known a moment's peace in her life.

" . . . probably best not to say anything. Let her just think the letters dried up."

Maria's voice draws Joel back to himself and he abruptly realizes that, in his reverie, he's played into their biases about his injury. They're talking past him. He sits up straighter. "What?"

Maria looks down at him. "Mel. Don't see how telling her changes anything. I asked the traders to keep it quiet, so the only ones in Jackson who know are the three of us."

Joel shakes his head sharply. He's been a part of enough lies - he knows where that road leads. "Tell," he says, trying to make his voice firm.

"Now, that ain't a good idea," Tommy says in that patronizing tone that Joel's heard too much of lately, "She might be actin' like Florence Nightingale, but that girl's dangerous."

"Grief makes people stupid," Maria agrees, "There's no telling what she might do if she thinks she's got nothing to lose."

Joel glares from one to the other. "Tell . . . her. Tell her."

"C'mon, see reason."

Joel's done listening to this. He turns his chair and rolls back into the house, trying to make it look purposeful. He navigates the darkened hallway carefully, bumping his chair into an abandoned pair of boots and Ellie's pack. His arms are sore by the time he gets to the kitchen, but he manages and doesn't stop until he's right outside the little curtained sleeping nook they've carved out for Mel. He doesn't touch the curtain but knocks a few times on the doorframe.

There's a sudden rustling from inside and the creak of floorboards as Mel lurches to her feet and pulls back the curtain. Her face is groggy, but alarmed. "Joel? What's wrong?"

She can probably see from his face that it's not good news. There's no point in him trying to stammer and pantomime through an explanation. He looks at her significantly, then turns his chair and jerks his head back the way he came. The caution in her face redoubles, but she hesitates long enough to grab a sweatshirt - still trying to hide her bump. He rolls back through the kitchen, knowing that she'll follow when she's ready.

Tommy and Maria have moved into the cluttered dining room. They're standing together by the fireplace, their faces grim. At least they're doing Mel the courtesy of not looking happy about what's happened. Joel hears her footsteps behind him until they reach the doorway and suddenly stop.

"Maria? Tommy, what's the matter?"

Joel tries to nudge her towards a chair, but she shakes her head. "Abby? Did she try to break into the city again?"

"No." Maria looks down, then back up at Mel. "We heard back from Ivan. That's the trader who's been ferrying your letters to Seattle." She pulls an envelope from her pocket. Joel can make out the name _"Owen Moore"_ on the front. "He brought this one back. His people couldn't find anyone to deliver it to."

Mel swallows. "What do you mean? Couldn't find _anyone_?"

Tommy sighs. "They went by Century Link - the old stadium. Found it abandoned except for a couple of stragglers. Kids and old people. Word is, some shit went down and wiped out most of the Wolves. The ones that were left either disbanded or picked up and moved for greener pastures."

Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't that. Her face is bloodless. She grips the back of the chair. "That's . . . that's impossible. There aren't that many infected in the city. We had them under control."

"Wasn't the infected," Tommy said, "Word is, they were mixing it up with some cult and got more than they could handle."

Mel's eyes suddenly flash with suppressed anger. "The Scars," she spits, "They broke every treaty we ever tried to make."

Maria shakes her head. "The cult wasn't the aggressor," she says gently.

"How the fuck can you know that?" The words seem to burst out of Mel without her consent. Her jaw tightens and she stares down at her hands. "Sorry."

Maria sighs. "I get it." She crosses the room and puts a hand on Mel's shoulder, but the girl still refuses to be herded to a chair. "The caravan asked around and listened to the rumors. They had trade arrangements with the Seraphites, too. They saw smoke rising from their island. Pyres. Burned villages. Your man Isaac apparently kept the force out there until both sides were all but wiped out. Nobody knows why he didn't retreat, but folk are saying he died out there."

Mel looks away. She swallows hard and blinks a few times. "And . . . ?" She seemingly can't bring herself to ask the question.

"Ivan's people asked after your friends - the ones we know about. Didn't get more than a rumor back, and only for one of them. Manuel Alvarez. The survivors said they'd heard he went down fighting in the first wave."

Mel closes her eyes. It takes her a few moments to pull herself together. When she does, her voice is carefully controlled. "And Abby? Owen?"

Maria shakes her head. "Nothing. But, the fighters didn't fare well. If they were on the front lines, odds are they didn't make it."

Mel nods, staring at the blank spot where floor meets wall. She dashes her sleeve across her face before the tears are more than a glimmer. Joel reaches for her arm, but she shakes her head sharply. After a moment, she meets Maria's gaze and speaks in a tone that strives for neutrality. "Abby might still be alive. She was here less than three weeks ago. If she made the trip on foot this time, it could've taken weeks for her to get back."

Tommy gives a growling sigh and steps forward. "Girl . . ."

She holds up a hand, forestalling him. "I'm just saying, you can't let up on the security measures. She could still come after Joel again. Especially if . . ." Her voice breaks and she trails off again.

Maria presses the unopened letter into her hand. "If they made it, then they know where you are. We'll let you know if they try to make contact. Mean time, Tommy's got some old friends on the west coast. He's gonna make some more inquiries."

From the look on Tommy's face, that's news to him, but he nods. "If they're in the city, they'll turn up. The girl tends to stand out."

"Thank you," she says in a detached, distant tone of voice. "Was there anything else?"

Maria shakes her head. "We don't take any joy in this news. I want you to know that."

Mel nods, blinking. Joel watches her face. He wants to say something - maybe tell her what he's found out about the process of dying - but he knows he doesn't have the language to say it. Hell, he probably couldn't have put that into words even before. He reaches for her hand, but she twists away and stumbles back through the kitchen, towards her bed. He stares after her and runs his hand through his hair. His fingers pause at the feel of scars on his scalp.

"This might cause as many problems as it solves," Maria says softly, once Mel's out of earshot.

Tommy nods. "The hell are we supposed to do with her now?"

Joel turns. "What?"

"When you're better, he means," Maria says, "Whenever that might be. We meant to take her back to Seattle and hope they'd see it as bygones. Now . . . well, she's not the type that can make it as a lone wolf, but she sure as hell ain't fitting into Jackson society."

"Don't see how that's any of our problem," Tommy says coldly, "I say we kick her to the curb when the job is done. Let her figure it out from there."

Joel shakes his head sharply. "She stays." Practice is paying off. His tongue barely slips over the two syllables.

Tommy snorts. "Come on. What, you want to adopt her or something?"

Joel bristles at the dismissive tone. His face hardens. "She stays."

Tommy looks at his face and suddenly seems to realize that he's serious. His own face turns angry. "She tried to kill you. Slowly. In front of me. Did you forget that?"

Joel shakes his head. "No." He taps his chest. "My . . . my problem."

"It's _not_ just your problem. You're my fucking brother, asshole!"

Tommy is glaring at him, but at least he's looking him in the face. Joel lets his expression harden even further. He rolls his chair towards Tommy, ignoring the futility of trying to look menacing in a wheelchair. His voice just needs to hold up for a couple more words. "My house," he growls. Tommy doesn't have an answer to that. He stares at Joel for long moments.

Maria clears her throat. "My town," she says flatly. Joel sighs and bows his head. He looks up at her, his face more beseeching. She purses her lips and shakes her head. "There's no point in arguing about it now. You don't even have your stitches out yet. When the time comes to decide, all I can tell you is that her actions will be taken into account. All of them."

He nods. It's the best he can hope for, at the moment. They'll see reason, once she comes clean about the baby.

The tension breaks a little. Tommy pulls off his jacket. "It's late. Honey, you gonna stay the night?"

She shakes her head. "I've gotta meet Mr. Sherman at the crack of dawn to talk about the new stables. Better to have him pounding on my door than yours."

He nods and walks her out. Joel turns back towards his room and slowly rolls himself to the threshold. Suppressed weariness is overwhelming his defenses, making his hands shake and his head spin. He pauses and stares down the hallway towards the little room where Mel is hiding, scared to even mourn her friends in front of him because of what he might think. What a fucking mess.

He looks at his bed and abruptly realizes that he has no shot of getting back in it. He doesn't want to drag Mel back out here just to tuck him in, but making a ruckus and hoping to wake Ellie doesn't sound like a solid plan either.

Tommy is closing the door, locking it and dead bolting it. His shoulders are slumped. Joel rolls back into the hallway, coughs to clear his throat, and . . . stops. The word he needs is _right there_ , but of course the fucking block is back. He tries for a moment, scowls, and hits the armrest with the heel of his hand. Tommy turns and stops when he sees his face. Joel looks from his brother to the bed and back. He shrugs helplessly. Tommy sighs. "Yeah. I got you."

He pushes the wheelchair into the room, lifts Joel onto the mattress, and reclines the bed, all without speaking. He's back to not looking at Joel, but it feels different than before. Less like he just doesn't see him. More like he's ashamed. He reaches over Joel to turn out the lamp, but Joel catches his wrist. "What?"

Tommy shakes his head. "Nothing."

Joel wants to press the issue, but he knows he doesn't have the damn words to ask what's at the root of Tommy's sullen silence. More little brother shit, probably. He'll get over it, in time.

He lets go and turns away. There's nothing he can do, right now, about the seemingly endless bad blood between Tommy and Mel. All he can do now is hope they can both get some rest and maybe find a little bit of peace.

It's a futile hope, and he knows it, but it's all he's got right now.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

After the morning rains, the afternoon sun is baking into the concrete courtyard, making it steam. The blue mosaic tiles glint and glimmer like the ocean they're meant to represent. Abby glances up at the defunct fountain, with its frozen stone dolphin. Behind it, the familiar letters glint in the sun: _SEATTLE WATERFRONT AQUARIUM._ She swallows hard and holsters her gun. He's here, somewhere. He _has_ to be.

The front door is locked and barricaded, but she's able to climb up to the roof and drop down through a broken skylight. The light within filters through the tanks, the same hazy blue-green as always, but today it doesn't feel peaceful. He _has_ to be here. She walks the halls cautiously. They're silent. No sign of habitation. "Owen?" Her voice comes out much too soft, like she's walking through a graveyard and trying not to disturb the ghosts. The dim corridor opens up onto the first exhibit hall. She stares up at the suspended whales for a moment, then shakes her head. It's not like she's going to find Owen up there with the painted sea life. 

She turns, meaning to check down another hallway, but the sudden creak of a bowstring registers on a ground-in, conditioned level. She spins, drawing her 9mm in one smooth motion. Her heart starts to race. Icy horror trickles through her, even as her face hardens. Not _here_. They couldn't have gotten to him here. "What the hell?"

The Scar is young - barely old enough to be a soldier, even by the cult's lax standards. Blue light glints off his pale skin and shaved head. He has his bow drawn, an arrow leveled at Abby's chest from just ten feet away. He can't miss. "You shoot me, I'll let go of the bowstring." His voice is soft and lilting. It's trying to be menacing, but not quite getting there.

Abby settles her gun in her hand and lifts her eyebrows. "You'll still be dead." The boy doesn't react. He can't be much older than thirteen. _Shit._ There's no way a Scar this young is out here by himself. There'll be more of them. She waits for the alarm whistle, but it doesn't come. She draws a slow breath. "What happened to the man that lived here?"

The Scar's eyes narrow. "That's none of your concern."

She takes a step toward him and arches an eyebrow. His fingers tighten on the bowstring. "Answer me, little big man. Did you kill him?"

The boy stares at her without speaking. His chest rises and falls once. Abby studies him and realizes that he's scarred - badly. There's the usual sweeping loyalty mark over both his cheeks, but his face carries other marks, too, not so artistic or deliberate. Angry lines crisscross over both eyebrows. His lip looks like it's been torn in at least two places and crudely stitched back together. The cuts are healed, but barely so. What she initially took for just a trick of the light is actually the faint green smudge of fading bruises over his jaw and cheekbones. He might look like a child, but Scars grow up fast.

They're interrupted by the scrabble of nails on tile. Abby turns, nearly shoots, and takes her finger off the trigger just in time as a dog bounds up to her, tail wagging. She bounces in a circle around Abby, sniffing her clothes and whining. The boy's face tightens. "Alice," he says, "Heel." He's lowered the bow but hasn't relaxed the string. She trots over to him, tail still whipping a mile a minute, and noses at his knee before returning to Abby.

It ought to be comforting to finally see a friendly face, but Abby feels something in her chest pinch. If Alice is here, then Owen is. Or he _was_. "How the fuck did you steal one of our dogs?"

"She's not _yours_!"

"Alice, heel." The German Shepherd drops into line beside her but gives Abby a whine that says that she'd much rather be getting belly rubs. The kid raises his bow again. His face suggests that he's starting to panic. Panic and a deadly weapon are never a good combination. Abby eyes him for a moment longer, then grits her teeth. This isn't going to be pleasant, but the WLF uses dogs for a reason. They're nonlethal weapons. "Alice, _get_."

Instead of leaping at the kid's bow arm and taking him down, she sits and cocks her head. After a moment, she seems to decide that Abby is just being ridiculous. She trots back over to the boy and bumps her wagging butt against him hoping for a scratch. The Scar glances down at her, then back up at Abby. "You can't be here. He's not going back."

Abby's jaw tightens. "The fuck are you talking about?"

"Lev." A familiar voice rings down from the walkway above. It's clear, but weary. Abby looks up and her breath punches out of her. "Put the bow down. She's okay."

The Scar, amazingly, obeys, but Abby hardly notices. She holsters her gun and climbs the ramp. Owen's face is the same, but it doesn't feel real until she reaches him and throws her arms around him. After a moment's pause, he hugs her back. "I went by the stadium," she says, her voice almost hoarse, "It's a ghost town. Everyone's packed up and left." Owen nods into her shoulder. She swallows. "You're alive."

"You're alone."

Her chest freezes. She steps back, tries to look at him, and fails. He looks down at the kid. "Lev. Why don't you take Alice for a walk? Give us a few minutes."

"Are you sure?"

Owen's face is guarded. "This is that friend I told you about."

The kid nods and whistles. Alice falls in beside him, still bouncing a little with excitement. Owen looks at Abby and jerks his head. She follows him down the hallway and into the restaurant. The sun is beaming through the windows, warm after the overwhelming blue of the exhibit hall. It looks like Owen's been here a while. There's a trashcan by the door, piled with cans and used water bottles. Two of the makeshift beds have been reclaimed and recently used, to judge by the rumpled blankets. Packs of gauze and bottles of antiseptic sit piled by one of the windows. Owen walks over and stares out across the water. It takes Abby a moment to realize that he's not angry - he's terrified. "Well?"

"She's okay," Abby says quickly, "They haven't hurt her. I'm pretty sure the Millers just have her tucked away in their extra bedroom. But, I couldn't get her out."

Owen leans a fist on the glass, then presses his forehead against it. "And, do you think she's _still_ okay? Now?"

Abby keeps her face still. "Yeah," she says quietly, "They still need her."

Owen sags a little with relief. He nods once, short and sharp.

Abby steps close. She leans a shoulder against the window and folds her arms. "Owen. The stadium. What happened?"

He shakes his head. The relief drains from his face, replaced by weariness. "People scattered - the ones that were left. They probably packed up whatever they could carry and tried to make it to other cities. Or else found bolt holes like this one."

"The ones that were _left_? The Scars did this?"

" _We_ did this." He swallows. "Isaac said we needed a more permanent solution to the _Seraphite problem_. He planned this attack on their island. I was one of the first at the staging ground. I thought it was going to be just one more raid, but more and more units kept showing up. He sent everybody."

She looks down at her feet. "And you lost?"

" _Everybody_ lost. We were in over our heads, but he wouldn't fall back. It was some 'no retreat, no quarter' bullshit. We wiped them off the map, but only a couple dozen Wolves made it out alive." He smiles bitterly. "Isaac not among them, so there's that."

The words hit like a punch. Abby always knew Isaac had his flaws, but he took them in when they had nowhere else to go. He told her that she could _be_ somebody - that if she committed and gave it her all, someday she'd be a force to be reckoned with. That's not the death she's most dreading, though. She knows there are others that'll hurt worse. She swallows. "Manny?"

Owen shakes his head without looking at her. "He was leading the first wave. They got slaughtered."

Her jaw tightens. "He's tough. He could've made it out. _You_ did."

"Abby, I found his body." His breath hisses through his nose. "It was . . . it was quick."

She turns away from the window and leans her back against it. She twists her face away from him so that he can't see her expression. After everyone she's lost, who knew one more could hurt so much? "I . . . I should've been there."

"Why? So you could get shot down next to him?"

"Maybe I could've made the difference."

"This isn't a fucking movie, Abby, do you get that? Manny was dead from the second Isaac handed out the assignments." He pauses, then winces at his own tone of voice. "I'm sorry. That . . . that was uncalled for."

"No, it wasn't." She closes her eyes. One more death. Nothing to do but push the pain down deep, like always. "So, you and Alice got out and . . . just came here? There must've been other survivors. Splinter groups. Why just hole up in here?"

She wants him to say that he was waiting for _her_. Well, her and Mel, at least. She knows he won't. He's shaking his head bitterly. "I'm just done with the WLF. I went by the stadium just long enough to tell Mr. Alvarez, then I got the fuck out." He turns. "Besides, there was the kid to think about."

Abby had all but forgotten about the Scar. "How'd you fall in with him?"

"On the island. The fighting was over and the smoke was starting to clear. I was looking for a survivor - _any_ survivor. And Alice brought me to him."

"He's barely old enough to hold a bow. Did he get those wounds in the battle?"

"No." He stares out across the restaurant, unseeing. "She brought me to this . . . bunker. It was right in the middle of one of their villages. All the huts around it had burned down, but it was built into this old garage or something. Concrete walls, steel doors. It was a prison."

Abby's eyebrows lift. "Scars locking up other Scars?"

"Lev . . . I guess he didn't drink the kool aid. It was some kind of re-education camp. I broke in and found him in the last cell, the only one still alive. He'd been in there for days, and they'd been beating the shit out of him. His face . . ." He snorts. "Well, I'd like to say it was the worst I'd ever seen, but that would be a fucking lie, wouldn't it?"

Abby takes the hit with gritted teeth. If Owen wants to lash out at her, that's fine. It doesn't change anything.

He's looking at her, watching for a reaction. "He was awake, but he could barely open his eyes. He just looked up at me, and you know what he said?" She shakes her head. His lip twists. "'Get it over with.'"

Abby looks at him, then away. She knows he's just spreading the pain around, but this is getting to be a bit much. "You're being a little on the nose, don't you think?"

"Hand to god, that's what he said." He looks away. The bitterness is fading from his face, leaving something tremulous in its wake. "And . . . for just a second, I asked myself . . . _Well, what am I waiting for?_ He was dead anyway, right? What's it matter? I even drew my gun."

He bows his head. "And, that's when I knew I had to get the _fuck_ away from the Wolves." He closes his eyes, then seems to shake himself. He seems suddenly anxious to have the story over and done with. "I found a boat, brought him here, and left Alice with him while I went and told Mr. Alvarez about Manny. And then I walked out and never looked back."

"You couldn't do it."

He nods, silently.

Abby sighs. "Yeah. I couldn't, either."

He doesn't respond. Maybe he doesn't even realize it's a confession.

"What are we going to do?"

He shrugs. "What's left of the WLF cleared out in little groups. They're not looking for deserters. And any Seraphites that made it out have gone underground. There's a lot of resources in the city and not many people left to kill each other for 'em. We could live here a long time."

Her eyes narrow. "And do _what_? Just look at the fish all day?"

"I can think of worse things."

"That's not a life. That's a holding pattern."

"So, what, should we just pick the nearest gang that has a cool name? Like last time? I don't want to dive headfirst into another war!"

"Then, don't, but you can't just sit here and try to forget everything that happened!" She turns to him. "Look . . . I couldn't do it on my own, but with two of us, we stand a chance. Let's just go get her, yeah? You can even bring the kid along, maybe he can watch our backs."

"No."

"What the _fuck_ , Owen?"

"They've got walls. Electricity. Guns. Hundreds of people who will kill for each other."

"I've got a way in. Nobody tracked me - it'll still work."

"That's not the point."

"Well, what _is_ the point?"

"We get her out and then what? Just go find another faction and sign our lives away? Come back here and bunker down until someone comes to take it away from us? What would be the point?" He shakes his head. "She's safe in Jackson."

"You've got to be kidding."

"She's pregnant."

"She's a prisoner!"

"You just said they've got her in their guest bedroom."

"Yeah, in _Joel Miller's house_."

"We're not doing this."

She turns and glares at him. "Are you really scared _for_ her? Or are you just scared to face her?"

His face is equally hard. He arches an eyebrow. "Aren't _you_?"

Her breath hisses past her teeth. She looks away. "You're a fucking piece of work, you know that?"

"Yeah. Maybe we deserve each other."

She shakes her head. "I'm gonna go make nice with the kid. Maybe pet the dog. Alice still likes me, I guess. There's that."

He doesn't answer. She leaves him there and doesn't look back.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to everyone who's been reviewing and supporting this fic. All feedback is welcome - I love hearing from you.


	10. Bitter Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mel's secret comes out and she faces her worst fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter is dark. I have updated the rating and the tags to reflect this. In addition to the listed tags, this also contains discussion of abortion and forced abortion as well as discussion of rape.

**_ 26  _ ** _The priest is then to take a handful of the grain offering as a memorial offering and burn it on the altar; after that, he is to have the woman drink the water._ _**27** If she has made herself impure and been unfaithful to her husband, this will be the result: When she is made to drink the water that brings a curse and causes bitter suffering, it will enter her, her abdomen will swell and her womb will miscarry, and she will become a curse. **28** If, however, the woman has not made herself impure, but is clean, she will be cleared of guilt and will be able to have children._

_-Numbers 5: 26-28, The Ordeal of the Bitter Water_

The most frustrating part of his seemingly-endless rehab is that Joel now has mandatory nap times. Mel insists. Every day, a little after lunch, she hoists him back into bed, draws the curtains, and turns out the lights for two hours, minimum. He wants to object - he's pretty sure he didn't have _mandatory_ nap time even when he was two - but between the grueling hours of rehab and speech therapy and his increasingly poor sleep at night, he needs the break more than he'd like to admit. Besides, he doesn't really want to make Mel's life any harder at the moment. She's soldiering on about as well as anyone could expect, so not fighting her on this seems like the least he can do.

The room is dark and he's dozing - drifting in and out - when he's suddenly roused by the door opening and then closing sharply. He opens his eyes, blinks a few times, and finds Ellie standing just inside the doorway, staring at it as if she's expecting an ambush to come crashing through at any moment. He clears his throat and arches an eyebrow at her in silent question.

Her head whips around and she gives him a smile that seems a little shaky. "Don't mind me," she says quickly, "Really, you can go back to sleep. I'm just . . ." She trails off.

He props himself up on an elbow. "What?"

She grimaces. "Just hiding from Dina."

He frowns. Ellie's been glowing about Dina for weeks. It seemed like she was finally starting to relax and stop worrying that the girl would run for the hills at the first opportunity. Now, it sounds like there's trouble in paradise. "What . . . wr . . . wrong?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing. Don't worry about it." He sits up and gives her a look. After a moment, she sighs and gives up. Her expression is just a couple steps down from "terrified." "She's pregnant," she says after a moment, "Dina."

His face falls. Shit. He spends a moment searching for the word he wants. Has something to do with Monopoly . . . "Cheat?" he says finally.

She shrugs one shoulder stiffly. "She says no. Says it must've been from before we got together. When she was with Jesse. She's supposedly due around Thanksgiving, so I guess if we get a Christmas baby, I'll know she's bullshitting me."

Joel doesn't think she would do that. She doesn't seem like the type that's okay with hurting people. "Leavin'?" he asks finally.

There's another flash of barely-controlled panic on Ellie's face before she controls herself. "It'd almost be easier if she was. I mean, it would suck, but . . . No, she says she doesn't want to give this up. Now, she wants me to _step up to the plate,_ whatever that fucking means."

He relaxes a little. "Baseball," he says.

She rolls her eyes and paces the floor furiously. "Thanks, Joel, I know what the fucking saying means. I just don't know what she wants from me. I mean . . . she's talking about just settling down and raising the kid together. Like, we'd be its _moms_. It's crazy."

Joel finds himself smiling a little as he realizes that there's no crisis, even if it might feel like it to her. This is just a very _normal_ kind of panic. He holds out a hand. "Settle down."

"Uh . . . no! _You_ settle down! I think I'm perfectly justified in not settling down."

"Love . . . her?"

Ellie stops pacing. After a moment, she sinks down heavily into a chair. "Yeah. I think I do. That's why this sucks so much."

He reaches for her hand and squeezes it. "Okay."

"No! It's _not_ okay! This is gonna fuck all of that up! We were just getting to where we were comfortable with each other, and now . . . How the hell am I supposed to be something's _mom_?"

He wants to tell her that it's normal, what she's feeling, but the word just won't come. He searches for another way to express it. "Nineteen?" he says finally.

"Huh? Uh, yeah. I'm nineteen. The fuck does that have to do with anything?"

He reaches out and gently touches the picture of Sarah, then taps his own chest twice. "Seventeen." He smiles a little. "Terrified."

She chews on that for a moment. "Uh, Joel? I get it if you've forgotten a couple of biology lessons, what with the head trauma and all, but . . . there's a pretty big difference between you with Sarah and me with this baby. Fetus. Whatever it is."

He shakes his head, still smiling. "Matter . . . no . . ." He pauses and focuses on grammar. " _Don't_ matter. Blood." He shrugs. "Don't matter."

She's calming down a little. She pushes her hair back from her face. "I don't know the _first thing_ about raising a kid."

Nobody ever does. He shrugs again. "Learn."

"I just don't want to lose her."

He nods. "Don't."

She takes a deep breath and seems to steel herself. "Okay. We'll . . . talk it over, at least. It's just a baby, right? They eat and they shit. How complicated can it be?"

He snorts. "Yeah."

"Y'know, you're pretty fucking zen about this. All things considered."

He presses his hands together and gives her his best _"Ohmmmm."_

"You probably think you're going to get out of diaper duty because of all the crippling injuries. Pretty clever of you to go get your head bashed in when you did."

He keeps his face perfectly straight. "Yeah. Real smart."

She smiles a little and, for the first time since the damn injury, he feels like he accomplished something.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Mel cuts the last suture, tugs it free, and wipes Joel's knee with a bit of alcohol. The flap held up better than she could have hoped. Now, the last remaining scabs are peeling away, leaving behind pink tissue and the serpentine white line of the new scar. The wound is closed.

She thought she'd feel more of a sense of accomplishment, when it was all said and done.

"How . . . looking?"

Joel grinds out the question and she's suddenly aware of the awkward silence that preceded it. She looks up at him from her position kneeling by the bed and tries to smile. "The skin looks good. It's a little tight, but it should stretch out over time."

He nods. He's perched on the edge of the bed with his toes on the hardwood. "And . . . ?"

She probes his knee carefully, feeling swelling and scar tissue and the hard lumps of buckshot still embedded in the wound. He grimaces. "It's less stable than I'd like." She closes her eyes and tries to visualize the anatomy. There's probably nothing left of the proximal fibula, and the shot might have taken out the attachments of the lateral collateral ligament too. It's the tibia that worries her, though. A fracture like that, with subsequent wound infection in an older patient who's now been bed-bound for almost three months . . . not great odds. There's nothing to do but try casting and physical therapy.

She takes a thick roll of cotton cast padding and starts to wrap his leg, starting just behind the toes. "The cast will go up past your knee and halfway up your thigh. You'll need to keep it dry, so we're still stuck with sponge baths for the foreseeable future."

He nods and fiddles with the hem of his gown. Mel can see that he's searching for a word, so she gives him a minute. He eventually sighs, grabs a notebook, and sketches a rough drawing of a pair of trousers. That draws a smile that's a little more genuine. "You want to know if you can wear pants?"

He nods and drums his pen against the page. "P . . . pants."

"As long as they're baggy enough. I'll talk to Tommy and see if we can scrounge up some sweats."

He nods again. It's the little victories. She wraps the cotton to just under his knee, taking care to keep it even and support the kneecap. Next comes a layer of yellowing gauze, wrapped just tight enough to compress the cotton down a little. Mel knows she should be making conversation - should be taking the time to work on his language skills. All the same, she falls silent. She just needs to focus on work . . .

There's a bucket at Mel's side containing long cotton strips soaking in plaster. She puts on a pair of gloves, lifts one, and wraps it around Joel's foot, being careful to keep it flat against the gauze without pulling it tight. Once it's wrapped up past the ankle, she pauses and carefully molds the plaster to support the arch of his foot and hold the ankle in a natural position. "How's that?" she asks, "It should feel snug but not tight, like a really well-fitting sneaker." Joel just nods. She looks at him sharply, hoping this isn't just his usual stoicism. "If there are any sharp points or spots that pinch, tell me now. Otherwise, it could rub and you could end up with really bad cast sores. I've seen those go all the way down to the bone."

He smiles a little and shakes his head. "It's good." 

She nods and continues to wrap up his calf until the plaster is sitting just under the kneecap. "We'll have to let that dry a little and then tie the second part into it." She lifts the partially-casted leg onto a box, nudges Joel to scoot towards the edge of the bed, and starts wrapping cast padding around his thigh.

Joel is staring out the window at his sun-soaked front yard. Ellie and Dina are out there, having what's clearly an intense heart-to-heart. Mel has seen them pacing, circling the house as they talk. Sometimes they've been walking close together, their shoulders brushing, their foreheads just inches apart. At other times, they turn to face each other with six feet of space between them, their voices rising, their hands gesticulating. Mel glances out at them now and finds them sitting on the sloping lawn. Ellie is leaning back on her hands, her arm inches from Dina's back but not quite touching, her face turned towards her.

Joel sighs. "Pregnant," he says after a moment, "Dina."

Mel nods. "She told me. How's Ellie taking it?"

He shrugs. "We'll . . . we'll see."

"I was starting to think she wasn't going to keep it. She hid it from Ellie for so long."

Joel doesn't respond, but after a moment he touches her shoulder. "You . . . hid . . . hiding?"

Mel wraps an arm around her swelling belly and smiles ruefully. "For the moment. Won't be possible for much longer."

"Tell," he says gently.

"I'll tell them. I'm just . . . waiting for the right moment, if there is such a thing."

"Scared?"

She doesn't look up, but she shrugs a shoulder, and that's as good as an admission.

"Why?"

She focuses on the bandages in her hands. "It's . . . complicated. My whole situation here is complicated. I don't know how the others are going to react. Especially Tommy. He barely tolerates me as it is."

Joel grunts. "Leave him . . . to me."

Mel snorts. "That's sweet of you, but it won't help. They just don't trust me. You know what they say: You never get a second chance to make a first impression."

Joel holds her gaze and shakes his head. He gestures at the mess of scar tissue under the cast, then at the deep scars on his head. "Not . . . your fault. You . . . nothing wrong."

Her hands pause on Joel's thigh, right over where the tourniquet sat. "Yeah? Then what was I doing in Jackson in the first place?"

Joel sighs and looks away. He hates reflecting on the past - whether on his own actions or on any of the shit that's happened to him. He reminds Mel of an old Bible story - Lot fleeing Sodom with his daughters, determined not to look back lest he turn to salt. Everyone finds their own way of coping, she supposes. 

She bends his knee, props it at a slight angle, and starts applying fresh plaster. "They're right not to trust me," she says quietly, "I don't blame them." She pauses for a moment, thinking about the tourniquet. His muffled "god damn it" as she wrapped it tight. The smell of blood. The way she lied to herself - told herself it was okay, that Abby probably just wanted to talk to him for a minute. She knew better. "There are some things no medic should be a part of."

Joel has nothing to say to that, and she finishes the cast in silence.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_Seattle, 2 years prior_

Mel keeps her hands steady as she probes her patient's temple. He has a nasty orbital fracture, with chips of bone sticking out of the skin. He's glaring at her with his right eye, but the left is locked in place, pinned by the fractured eye socket. She makes a quick but careful incision so that she can get a pair of forceps in to probe the wound.

Her patient struggles against the straps that bind his head and wrists and ankles. She gives him a firm look. "Hold still. Or I could end up stabbing you in the eyeball."

He spits on the floor and returns to muttering under his breath. " _Only when I am weak do I carry my true strength . . . only when I'm weak . . ._ Ah! _Fuck_ , that hurts!"

Apparently, all of the Seraphite proscriptions against profanity go out the window when the pain starts. "You sure you don't want the lidocaine?"

He gives her a look of deep offense. " _For the Old World and its iniquities are a siren call, so be not swayed._ Gah! Motherfucker!"

"Suit yourself. But, you've got bone chips stuck in the muscles around your eye. Getting them out is gonna be no picnic." She wipes the incision with a bit of antiseptic and makes a deeper cut.

"Fuck! _Be not swayed . . . Fuck!_ Sadistic shit!"

On the other side of the gurney, Manny hooks his thumb through his belt loop. "Stop bitching, Jacob. Show a little gratitude for the lady who's giving you back your ability to throw the stink eye." His voice isn't hostile. In fact, it's more like friendly ribbing, as if he and the Scar are old buddies. This one has been in the interrogation program for weeks. Apparently, they've gotten to know each other pretty well while Manny's been working him over.

Jacob responds in kind. "Yeah, really fucking generous of you all, fixing my head after it fell on your fist. The Wolves are just the motherfucking humanitarians of the year."

"Language, _puta madre._ You kiss your prophet with that mouth?"

" _And the infidels will hear the words of truth but will close their ears to them . . ._ "

Bickering with Manny isn't the analgesia protocol Mel would have chosen, but it at least keeps the Scar distracted. While Jacob alternates between questionably-sourced scripture and increasingly creative profanity, Mel blots away the welling blood and probes the wound again. There. A bony fragment lodged between the orbit and the zygomatic arch, trapping the extraocular muscles. She grasps it with her forceps, gives Manny a significant look, and pulls.

Jacob screams in earnest and struggles, making the leather straps around his forehead dig into his skin, but Manny braces him with one hand on his chest and the other on his head. "Easy, _pendejo_. Come on, where's the tough guy that doesn't need no fucking lidocaine?"

Jacob is panting, but after a moment he gets himself under control. "Fuck you," he says weakly.

"Now, that's more like it."

"Worst is over," Mel says evenly, "And I think I relieved the entrapment. Can you move your eye?"

His left eye twitches, then rolls toward her. He groans with a combination of pain and relief. "My eye! Fuck, thank the Prophet."

"You're welcome." She loads a bit of suture onto a needle. "Now, let's get you stitched up." Jacob settles down as she stitches the incision shut. Scars are pretty tough about those kinds of things. Once it's done, she undoes the restraints on his left wrist and drops a plastic bag into his hand. "Ice. One hundred percent organic and prophet-approved." 

He grunts and lifts it to his eye.

"Five minutes on, five minutes off for an hour, then I'll bandage your head. You'll have an eye patch for a while."

"You're not too holy to read a clock, right?" Manny says.

Jacob just grunts. "Fuck you."

There are plenty of orderlies to keep an eye on him and nothing sharp within reach, so when Manny turns and heads for the door, Mel follows him. He glances back at her as they step out into the hallway. "Sorry about Jacob," he says after a moment, "He's a screamer and a cusser."

"I've heard worse," she says evenly, "But, you need to be more careful. He could've lost his eye."

"Yeah. I know." He rolls a shoulder. "The _pendejo_ slipped his restraints and went for my knife. I had to improvise."

"I thought there were protocols in place."

"Things happen." He shrugs after a moment. "Anyway, don't waste your sympathy on this batch of Scars. Word just came down that they're all getting released in that prisoner exchange at the end of this week. They'll be back to shooting at us soon enough."

She sighs. "Great. More catch-and-release. Isaac _does_ realize that they'll just stir up more hate against us, right?"

"With how many of our guys got snatched, he doesn't have much of a choice."

"He could stop the interrogations, at least."

"They'd just find something else to hate us over."

She looks away. "Any word from Isaac? On how long this assignment will last?" It's been almost a month, but it feels like years.

"Nothing. There's no telling when he'll decide that we've proven ourselves. Some grunts get promoted in two weeks, others have to wallow in the shit here for months before he decides if they've got it."

Mel clenches her jaw and nods. Working the prisons and running interrogations is technically a voluntary assignment. Any soldier can refuse to take part if they don't feel comfortable with it. In practice, though, no one can remember the last time someone got promoted beyond the very bottom of the ranks without them having to spend some shifts here proving to Isaac that they weren't too soft to be trusted in the field. "I should go," she says quietly, "I still need to do the evening checks on the women's block."

Manny nods. "Do me a favor? If you see Abby down there, tell her to take a fucking break once in a while. And maybe eat something once or twice a day."

"I promise to give a good scolding," she tells him. After a moment, she looks at him. "How's she handling all this?"

"Better than me, most days." Manny shrugs. "You know Abby: totally focused on her goals. I know she'll be as relieved as I am when we can say _adios_ to this place, but she's keeping it together. She wants that special forces training. Bad."

Mel swallows. "Thanks. For taking this assignment with her. She needs somebody here, especially since Owen backed out."

Manny smiles. "Who says me being here has anything to do with Abby? Maybe I just want to get promoted too. I think I'd make an _excellent_ Supreme Allied Commander."

Mel's lip twitches despite herself. "Yeah. I'm sure."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Whatever issues Ellie and Dina were having, talking them out seems to have done the trick, at least for the moment. They might be anxious about impending parenthood, but they're back to showing nothing but smiles and honeymoon eyes. They're on kitchen cleanup tonight - Maria's rule for evenings at Joel's place is that she will cook _or_ do dishes but not both - but the two are spending less time scrubbing pots than flirting and flicking soap bubbles at each other. Mel wipes down the counters and heads back to her curtained sleeping alcove, leaving the lovebirds to it. Tommy and Maria are up in the dining room with Joel, talking - or so Mel hopes. She can steal a moment of privacy.

She glances back at Ellie and Dina, then sighs and shakes away thoughts of Owen. There's no point in pining for what she can't have - what she can never have again. It's time for her vitamins. She squats and fishes between the mattress and the wall, feeling for the hard plastic bottle. After a moment, she frowns. She's been on the daily pills for more than two weeks now and she hasn't missed a dose. They have to be here, somewhere. She yanks the mattress away from the wall, then flips it up on its side. There's nothing - just a few dust bunnies. No sign of either the prenatal vitamins or the iron supplements. _How?_ She took them last night, didn't she? Maybe she misplaced them afterwards . . . she's heard people complain about "pregnancy brain," but it hasn't been a problem for her before now.

She drops the mattress, stands, and rifles through the shelves. There's nothing - just her small supply of clothes, a hairbrush, the reference books, a borrowed paperback. Her hands go still as she admits a frightening possibility. Slowly, she touches the small lump in the pocket of her jeans. The misoprostol, at least, is still there. Though she has no intention of using it, she keeps that on her at all times. She doesn't dare let it out of her sight.

A knock on the doorframe makes her jump. Mel struggles to collect herself as Maria tugs back the curtain. "Everything alright?"

Mel grabs a loose sweater, and tugs it on. "Yeah. Just a little chilly in here for me."

Maria's face is composed, but holds a hard edge. Mel pushes down dread. "Why don't we take a walk? Get a little fresh air."

Her tone is pleasant, but it's clearly not a request. Mel swallows and grabs her jacket. "Sure."

Instead of heading back out the front door, Maria clears away a few boxes and opens the little-used door to the back porch. Mel follows her out into the twilight, trying not to overanalyze why Maria would take her out the back rather than walking past Ellie and Dina and Tommy and Joel. Maria's gait is loose and easy - the stride of a woman who's spent her whole life among ranchers. Mel struggles to stay beside her. The older woman glances at her a few times, her face impassive. Mel decides not to make this easy on her. She waits for Maria to break the silence.

"Dina came to me before she talked to Ellie," Maria says at last, "Lookin' for advice."

Mel glances back at Joel's house - now partially obscured by the dark and Ellie's shed. "Seems like she got what she was looking for."

"I suppose. Anyway, in between talking over affairs of the heart, we chatted about the practicalities, some. I tried to hook her up with what she needed, but it turns out she already had it. From you."

Mel takes a carefully measured breath. Maria took the vitamins, she's nearly sure. Or, at least, someone took them and told Maria. But, if they think she was just holding onto them for Dina, maybe this won't be the disaster she's expecting. "Dina told me in confidence," she says evenly, "We found the vitamins and so forth at the hospital."

Maria nods without looking at her. "She also told me you offered to end it."

Mel presses her lips together. "She was scared, and I know how to do it safely. Is that against the law, here?"

The woman shakes her head. "It's the mother's choice and nobody else's business." She pauses. "Thing is, I looked through all the supplies that came back from the hospital run - everything that got added to the town's stock. Something was missing." She gives Mel a steady, measuring look. "Keeping a confidence is one thing. And what Dina does ain't none of my business unless she wants it to be. But, holding back supplies from Jackson? That's over the line. The pills, Mel. Where are they?"

Mel swallows and tries to get a grip. There's no reason to keep assuming a worst case scenario. Maria's just suspicious. Slowly, she reaches in her pocket, pulls out the misoprostol, and hands it over. 

Maria squints at the label. "This ain't the abortion pill."

Mel shrugs. "It's for stomach ulcers. Just has some . . . extra side effects. It'll usually cause a miscarriage if taken in the first twelve weeks. After that, it mostly just causes birth defects."

"Why'd you hide it?"

Mel keeps her face carefully still. "Wasn't sure how you felt about abortion around here. I didn't want to run into roadblocks if Dina wanted one." It's true, but it's barely half the truth. Mostly, she hadn't wanted to live in terror of the pills being slipped into her morning oatmeal.

Maria nods and rotates the bottle in her hands. She stares off into the night for a moment. "And the rest of the vitamins?" she says at last, "The ones you told Dina were going straight into Jackson's stock? Were you keepin' those back for a rainy day, too?"

Mel's jaw tightens and she speaks without thinking. "The ones you stole from my room?"

"Spare me. We might treat you like a long term houseguest, but you know better."

So much for avoiding hostilities. Mel takes a careful breath. "You want to cut to the chase? Might save us some time."

Maria doesn't react to the edge in her voice. There's a small, tight smile playing at the corner of her mouth - one that's neither warm nor happy. "You're pregnant."

Mel looks at her feet, then back up at Maria. "Yeah."

Their wanderings have taken them away from the residential streets and out past a series of greenhouses. Trees and park benches cut them off from the town on their left, while Jackson's outer wall rises up on their right. Mel resists the urge to look up at it - to mark the white glow of floodlights and the dark silhouettes of guards. There's not another soul around. 

"Who else knows?"

"Just Joel. I spend so much time with him, he was bound to notice."

Maria's face tightens as if Mel's just confirmed her worst suspicion. "Why hide this from us?"

She hid it because she _does_ know better. She's not a guest, here, and even after months in Jackson, she can't predict the lengths they'll go to if they decide to punish her. She shrugs. "I thought . . . my situation here is complicated enough. I didn't want to add extra variables until I had to."

"Well, that ship has fucking sailed, don't you think?"

Mel glances at her, startled at the hard tone. "I guess."

Maria looks from her face down to the bottle in her hand. Her voice is cold and perfectly controlled. "What if I told you to take these? Right here, right now."

A chill runs through Mel. Her arms lock at her sides involuntarily. It's all she can do to keep her face frozen. "I . . . I don't have stomach ulcers." Her voice sounds faint even to her own ears. Fuck. _Fuck._ These people almost lured her in, with their apparent tolerance - their thoughtless generosity with food and shelter and trust. She's almost let herself forget what she was: a prisoner in enemy territory. She knows what happens to prisoners.

Maria's face is unyielding. "I don't like being lied to."

Mel's mouth is dry, but she forces the words to scrape out of her. "I never lied." She convinced herself the baby was safe. She told herself that the people of Jackson wouldn't hurt it, even if they hated her. She told herself that Maria wasn't Isaac and that the world, on a whole, might not be as brutal as the one she's lived in for the past four years. She was an idiot.

"You ain't been truthful either." She pauses. "Should I get you a glass of water?"

She's forgotten to breathe. Her body reminds her with a sharp gasp. "Why are you doing this?" Her voice almost breaks. She swallows and tries to force it to be steady. "I've done everything you asked."

"Yeah. And what else have you done?"

She wants to scream. Or beg. Or defend herself. She wants to say that all she did was put a tourniquet on a dying man's leg - that she didn't know what would happen, that she didn't condone it. She knows there's no point, though. Maria responds only to strength. She wonders suddenly if the other woman has been holding onto anger all these months, waiting for a chance at revenge. She closes her eyes and sees the blood-spattered basement again, with hostile faces all around. She hears Maria lay down her death sentence and hears not a single person object. She opens her eyes and ignores the haze of tears. "If you do this, that's it," she whispers, "I'm done helping. Joel's leg can rot off for all I care."

"It won't, though," Maria says flatly, "It's closed. And he's got his family to look out for him - to keep him _safe_." It feels like there's something behind that - some emotion, some _accusation_ even, driving that choice of words - but Mel can't work out what it is. Her mind is spinning. Maria might be ruthless, but she's not wantonly cruel. Why is she doing this? Why _now_?

Mel is all out of positions of strength. She's played her best card, and it isn't enough. "Maria," she says quietly, "Please don't do this."

She's never begged her before - not for anything. And Maria . . . softens. She takes Mel's hand and squeezes once. "Just be straight with me." She pauses. "How'd you get this baby?"

Mel feels like she has whiplash. She's not sure what she expected, but a question about her pre-Jackson sex life isn't it. She bites back a sarcastic reply that probably wouldn't be appreciated. At the same time, she finally recognizes this for what it is: an interrogation. Not an execution, at least not yet. "What do you mean?"

"You're a smart girl, Mel. All the same, you've shown you ain't got much in the way of moral qualms. And after the way you came to Jackson, I think you'd do just about anything to secure your place here." She pauses and her face hardens again. "I need to know _what_ you did."

She thinks Mel got pregnant _in Jackson_. That she did it on purpose. It boggles the mind. _When_ would she even . . . _how_? She struggles to see this from Maria's perspective. Mel _has_ been sharing a house with another woman's husband for months, but the thought that she could really think there was something between Mel and Tommy feels ridiculous. Mel throws caution to the wind and lets out a barking laugh. "What is this? You think I've been making a move on your man?"

Maria snorts derisively. "I know Tommy better than that." She gives Mel a very cold look. "But, you've seen what we're about, here. How we look after family. And I wouldn't put it past a smart, ruthless girl to want to find a way to worm herself into that family. No matter what it took."

Mel studies Maria and abruptly realizes that she's not protecting her territory. She's defending her family. Understanding hits suddenly, like a punch in the gut, and Mel almost wants to throw up. She's not worried about Tommy, but there's one other man in that house. One Mel spends a lot of time with, who Maria thinks she could manipulate. Or even _force_. Someone who couldn't say anything about it, even if he wanted to. "Oh," she says quietly, "Wow." She curls a hand around her belly. "You think it's Joel's. That's what you're getting at."

She stops by a straggly tree and turns to Mel, folding her arms. "I think he's gotten real protective of you all of the sudden. Made me wonder what was up. And now, this comes out. Lord knows I don't want to be right. But, we gave you our trust. I think you've got some explaining to do."

Her brain spins for a moment, like tires caught in the mud. Relief mixes with horror until she feels almost lightheaded. Would Maria really think that of her? Christ, Joel is her patient. Her enemy, or at least he was. It's a fucking complicated relationship, but the idea that an observer could even _think_ something like that makes her stomach churn. Maria is still watching her, waiting. Slowly, Mel strips off her jacket, then the sweater beneath, then the hoodie. The night air prickles the skin on her arms and cuts right through her thin tee-shirt. She smoothes her shaking hands over the prominent bulge of her stomach. "I'm due in September. Four and a half months out. I didn't get this baby from Joel, or Tommy, or anyone else in Jackson. Okay?"

Maria's eyebrows lift for just a moment as she absorbs this new information. "Okay." Slowly, she tucks the misoprostol into her pocket. The tension breaks, and Mel's breath rushes out of her. It's not quite a sob, but it's close. Maria takes her gently by the shoulder and steers her to sit on a nearby bench. That's right out of the interrogator's handbook: comfort in the aftermath of fear. It's a surefire way to forge a connection - to get your target to spill their guts. "How long have you known?"

Mel closes her eyes, fighting the pull of memory. Just because she's _aware_ of the tactic doesn't make her _immune_ to it. "We'd just found that cabin - the Baldwin place - when I decided I had to face facts. I told Owen . . . I said _let's just turn back, it's too dangerous._ I didn't want to risk it. He said he'd bring it up to the group, but first he wanted to talk to Abby." She closes her eyes. "Three hours later, she came crashing through our door with Joel and Tommy. You know the rest." She's a little surprised that thinking about this can still leave her angry, even months later. Even now that Abby is probably dead. She knows that her bitterness is not entirely justified. She remembers Abby at the end: all alone, pinned down with her shotgun but unwilling to surrender. She remembers her throwing her body over Mel's to protect her. Still. Abby _knew_. She knew, and it didn't change a thing.

"Why didn't you say something?" Maria's voice is soft. Fuck, she's good. Isaac would have given her half his kingdom. "The way we found you . . . you were desperate to save yourself. Why not tell us then?"

Mel shrugs. "Would it have made a difference?"

Maria doesn't respond. After a moment, though, she sighs. "I wish this whole show hadn't been necessary. I came down pretty hard on you. I needed the truth." She fishes in the pocket of her jacket and pulls out a couple of plastic bottles. She passes them to Mel without a word. Prenatal vitamins. Iron supplements. "Word of advice, Mel? Be straight with us. We've got enough reasons not to trust you as it is."

All Mel can do is nod.

Maria squeezes her shoulder and nudges her to her feet. "Come on. I'll walk you home."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_Seattle, 2 years prior_

Mel wakes to a hand shaking her shoulder. She blinks a few times and Manny's face resolves out of the gloom. "Medical emergency," he says shortly, "One of the Scars."

She pushes herself up off her cot, shoves her legs into pants, and grabs her bag. She tries not to stumble as she follows him out into the hall and down a flight of stairs. It's pitch black outside. Must be past two in the morning. "Suicide attempt?" she asks.

"No. We learned our lesson about giving them bed sheets."

"An interrogation, then. I thought there were protocols in place!"

He bristles a little at her tone. "Hey, this wasn't on us! Just come see for yourself, okay?"

He stops at the ground floor, rather than continuing down to the basement cell blocks. So, they must already have the Scar up in the infirmary. As they push through the doors, Mel can hear groans and sobbing echoing down the hall. It's a woman's voice. She swallows and picks up the pace.

The infirmary is cluttered and lit with halogen lamps, but it's the cleanest room on base. There's only one patient at the moment: a thin, naked woman writhing in bed, struggling against four-point restraints. Two orderlies flank her and are trying in vain to calm her down. Mel's not sure if she can even hear their voices over her own screams.

Even from across the room, Mel can see the smears of blood on her thighs. A lot of blood. She stops in her tracks. She can't bring herself to look at Manny. "Was she raped?" she whispers.

"No," he says quickly.

She draws a slow breath. "Manny. Are you _sure_?"

"I'm sure! Look, nobody touches the prisoners in the women's block besides me and Abby. And, I like my women _willing_."

Mel nods, fishes her stethoscope out of her bag, and approaches the bed. It takes her a moment to recognize this particular Scar. The woman's been in the interrogation program for almost two weeks and Mel's been doing daily checks on her, but she's never seen her like this - her face covered in sweat, her braids coming undone, her face twisted into an expression that's barely human. "No," she's gasping over and over, "No, no, no. No."

Mel snaps on a pair of gloves and touches her shoulder. "Susannah? It's me. You need to calm down. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

The woman tries to jerk away, though there's nowhere to go. She already has a sprained wrist from a botched stress position. If she keeps this up, she could cause nerve damage. Mel checks her pulse and finds it rapid but strong. She fishes a bottle of midazolam out of her bag and draws up a tiny dose. "I'm going to give you something just to help you calm down."

"No! Please, no."

"Shh . . ." Mel injects the drug into her upper arm. The woman slumps into the mattress. "It's a very mild sedative," Mel tells her, "It's not going to hurt you. And you _need_ it. Tell the Prophet she can take it up with me, okay?"

Susannah's muscles slacken, though the drug doesn't kick in nearly that fast. This is just the placebo effect. That, and defeat, which can be the strongest paralytic of them all. She's diaphoretic and much too pale. Mel starts an IV and hands off a blood sample to one of the orderlies. "Get me a hemoglobin and a platelet count. Put the rest on hold." She undoes the restraints on Susannah's ankles, dodges a kick, and presses a thick gauze sponge between her legs. "Press your legs together. Hard as you can." Susannah seems to finally realize that Mel is trying to help. She obeys, but turns her head away. Mel whisks a sheet over her and listens to her heart and lungs. She checks a blood pressure and finds it lower than she'd like but not catastrophically low. "When did the bleeding start?" Susannah just shakes her head and closes her eyes. Mel looks at Manny.

"She was fine at lights-out," he says, "Abby found her like that when she did the 2am checks. Found a lot of blood in the cell, too."

Mel's jaw tightens. "Where is she, anyway?"

"Abs? She brought the Scar up to sick bay and went back down to try to wring some info out of her cellies."

Mel presses her hands over the woman's abdomen, just below the rib cage, then runs them down towards her pelvis. There. A slight swelling, just above the pubic bone. The uterus. "Susannah," she says quietly, "When was your last period?" The Scar just shakes her head. Tears are streaming down her cheeks. Acting on instinct, Mel reaches for her hand. "Hey. How far along are you?"

She finally meets her gaze. "Twelve weeks," she whispers hoarsely, "John begged me not to come on that patrol. I should've listened."

Her voice is rough and broken, but at least she's talking. Mel nods and gestures for the ultrasound to be brought over. "John. Is that your husband?"

"Yes. May she protect him." Mel spreads the ultrasound gel over her abdomen, presses down with the probe, and fixes her eyes on the grainy screen. Susannah's voice has fallen off into murmurs. "She guides us. She protects us. She guides us. She protects us. She guides us . . ."

The fetus on the ultrasound is perfectly formed and perfectly still. Mel holds the probe in place for long moments, searching in vain for the flutter of a heartbeat. After what feels like an eternity, she puts down the ultrasound probe and sighs. "I'm sorry." The woman's mantra breaks off into sobs. Mel stands and approaches Manny. He looks sick to his stomach, and that actually makes Mel feel a little better. "She's lost too much blood. She needs a D&C. And maybe a blood transfusion. Can you get a set of obstetric stirrups down here? And wake Nora - I'll need the assist."

"On it."

"And, Manny . . ." He pauses and she swallows. "Sometimes these things just happen, right? We don't know that it was us."

He nods but leaves without a word.

Mel approaches the bed and sets up an IV drip. One of the orderlies returns with the blood work. She gives it a glance and clenches her jaw. "Check a blood type, and then go find Abby. Tell her we need a donor. Preferably a volunteer." While he departs, Mel changes her gloves and kicks a stool over towards the foot of the bed. "I need to take a look," she tells Susannah, "Can you scoot down a little?" The woman obeys, mechanically, and lets Mel position her legs with her knees bent and apart. Beneath the tented sheet, Mel pulls the gauze away and does her exam as gently and professionally as she can. There's no sign of external trauma, but blood is still leaking steadily from the cervix. "Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?" she asks quietly.

The Scar shakes her head. The midazolam is lowering her inhibitions - loosening her lips. "I shouldn't have told _anyone_. Look what's happened."

"We don't know what caused this. It could've been the stress, or there might have been a problem with the fetus. Sometimes it's just not meant to be."

"You people did this!" Her rage must be strong to penetrate through the growing haze of the sedation. Mel carefully doesn't react. After a moment, the woman sags again. "I should've known better. Everyone knows what Wolves do to babies."

"Susannah. Can you tell me what happened?"

"The same thing that always happens. To every woman who leaves your cages without their baby. I tasted something bitter in my food."

Mel's eyebrows lift. "You think you were poisoned?" Grief can be irrational. She's seen all kinds of crazy coping mechanisms. This one, though . . . it makes her uncomfortable. This isn't the first miscarriage she's seen since working in the prison, and none of the others had signs of trauma or fetal deformity either.

"I know I was. I told the others - my sisters - and they knew what had happened. They've seen it before. They prayed and prayed, but it was too late."

"Susannah . . ."

"You don't tell the Wolves about a pregnancy! Not ever. Not even if . . ." She trails off and swallows hard. "It was after my last interrogation. She wanted to know why I kept vomiting. Acted like she was so concerned. And I thought . . . what's the harm? I can tell another woman. She'll understand, even if she is a Wolf." Her eyes squeeze shut. "And then dinner came and there was a bitter taste in my food."

Mel's mouth is dry. She wants to just dismiss this as the deranged ravings of a religious nut job, but . . . "You think Abby did this to you?"

Susannah stares at her. "She was the only one who knew."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

It's been an hour since the D&C, and Susannah is still sleeping off the anesthesia. Mel checks her hemoglobin one more time - low but stabilizing - and draws the curtains around her bed. Across the room, Nora is setting up for the blood collection and not bothering to cover her yawns.

Right on time, the door bangs open and Abby enters, dragging a struggling Scar. Mel recognizes Jacob. His head is still bandaged and he's as belligerent as ever. " _\--And she will write in our very blood that we are her chosen people._ Means you fuckers have no right to do this!"

"Yeah, sure," Abby says, "Tell your prophet to leave a note in my complaint box."

" _And, by her guidance, we shall smite the wicked and the unjust . . ._ "

"It's just a little blood," Nora snaps, "Quit being such a baby."

" _And sinners will flee before us . . ._ "

Abby wrestles him into a chair and pins him there while Nora straps him into restraints. "It's a donation. And if you don't shut up, you're gonna donate some to the wall, too."

" _And she protects us . . ._ from the vicious motherfuckers, mostly."

Abby rolls her eyes but doesn't make good on her threat. Nora already has an IV started, and he's not fighting the restraints. Jacob is mostly talk, and they all know it. Mel takes the opportunity to step close and check under his bandage. The wound looks okay - no swelling, minimal discharge. She gives him a wry smile. "If it helps, it's for a good cause."

He looks past Mel and his face suddenly freezes, the false bravado falling away. He's staring at the curtained bed, and the blood-spattered obstetrical stirrups leaning against it. "Susie?" Mel nods. His voice drops half an octave. "Animals," he says flatly, "All of you."

Nora stabs him in the mouth with a straw. "Shut up and drink your juice."

Mel catches just a glimpse of Abby's expression before she turns away. She looks rattled. Mel feels her stomach sink. Nora has Jacob well in hand, so she leaves her to monitor and follows Abby out into the hallway. Abby's back is straight. The new muscle in her shoulders is tight with tension. When she hears Mel following her, she stops but doesn't turn. "She gonna make it?"

"Probably," Mel says neutrally, "The fetus didn't."

There's a long silence. When Abby next speaks, her voice is trying to be hard, but she's clearly hiding a tremor. "Well. Bright side: fifteen years from now, that'll be one less bow pointed at us."

Mel can't answer. Abby's just putting up a front - trying to act hard - but Mel has heard similar sentiments from Isaac far too often. _"The Scars are just out-breeding us,_ " he'd say, _"They know they can't beat us now, but if we're not careful, the next generation will gnaw on our bones."_ And, Abby's been spending far too much time with Isaac, learning tactics and strategy and operational guidelines and hate.

Abby turns, finally. Her expression is disgusted. "What a mess. Now they're sending pregnant women out after us. What the hell did they think was going to happen?"

Mel presses her lips together. "She blames you," she says, "Susannah."

The girl shakes her head. "Of course she does. We're the big bad Wolves. Responsible for every little injustice and misfortune in their miserable little lives."

"Not _us_." Mel's voice is suddenly sharp, but she can't help it. "You. She had this idea that we'd spiked her food. Because she told you she was pregnant." Abby is silent. Mel feels her chest clench. She knows where this road leads and she doesn't want to see the end of it, but she can't stop herself. She needs to know. "But, that's ridiculous, right? Your interrogations get rough, but they're about gathering actionable intel. Who cares if she's pregnant? There'd be no reason to even put that in the report." Abby just stares at Mel, her face expressionless. She used to wear her heart on her sleeve, but Isaac must have taught her that that's a weakness. Mel swallows. "Abby. _Was_ there something in her food?"

She scowls. "How the fuck should I know? I'm not her cafeteria lady."

"But, you _did_ pass along word of her pregnancy? You put it in the report that went to Isaac?" Her expression is answer enough. Mel's breath hisses out of her. "Jesus, Abby!"

"What? That's the entire point of interrogations: get intel. Put it in a report."

"You think her pregnancy is _intel_?"

"It's not my job to decide what matters and what doesn't! I moved it up the chain. That's all."

"And who cares what happens after that, I guess?" She pauses. "What if Isaac ordered this? What if he killed that woman's child?"

"Then, _so what_? She's a Scar! Her unit killed four of ours before we took them down - she's lucky to be alive at all!"

" _So what?_ Do you hear yourself?"

"What is your problem, Mel?"

"My _problem_? We're supposed to be the good guys!"

Abby lets out a bitter laugh that seems to add years to her face. "You don't really believe that."

Mel is briefly speechless.

Abby stares at her. "Shit. You do." She shakes her head. "Look around you. Do you see any fucking good guys?"

Mel's lips press into a hard line.

Abby rounds on her and takes a menacing step forward. "The good guys? They were all back in Salt Lake City. And, you know what happened to them?"

Mel still can't speak, but she grits her jaw and stands her ground, even as Abby towers over her. When did she get so _tall_?

"They got shot. And stabbed. And burnt up with Molotov cocktails, all because we cared more about being _the good guys_ than we did about surviving. We lost and he won because _he_ was focused on the mission, while _we_ were wondering if we'd look pretty in the history books."

Mel stares steadily into eyes she hardly recognizes. This is where every conversation with Abby leads, now. Any attempt to call her out - to pull her back from the brink - only strengthens her resolve. Her _isolation_. "What the fuck does Joel have to do with Susannah?"

This time, that's all it takes to get Abby to flinch - to turn her back into a conflicted teenage girl. Her shoulders slump. She looks away. "I did what I had to do." Her voice is almost beseeching.

Mel's not ready to let it rest. "Is that what you're going to tell Owen?"

Abby's face freezes. It's a low blow, bringing up her increasingly strained relationship. Mel doesn't care. Owen flatly refused to work this detail, even knowing that it would mean being iced out of the command position that his training and competence warranted. And now, Mel is starting to wish she'd done the same.

Abby's expression suggests deep betrayal. All the same, she doesn't hit back. She seems more hurt than angry. After a moment, she turns and walks away, her plea for validation still hanging in the air. Mel takes a deep breath, composes herself, and goes to check on her patient.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys hung in there with me. I would love to hear your thoughts, whatever they might be.


End file.
